


The First Casualty

by smirnoffmule



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Moral Ambiguity, Mystery, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-27
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 85,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smirnoffmule/pseuds/smirnoffmule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A humanitarian mission on a war-torn world goes badly wrong, and Malcolm has to face the consequences.  Warnings in Author's Notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings (for whole story):** Dark themes, violence, torture, depictions of terrorism, PTSD.
> 
> **A/N:** Set post season four. The title comes from Aeschylus; “In war, truth is the first casualty.”
> 
> All the thanks in the world due to Volley & Vera, without whom this monster never would have survived.

The planet was a bright spot on the edge of Archer’s vision, large in his ready room window. Its glare was a distraction, but he wanted it there, as he ran his eye down the numbers on his PADD. Pages of statistics, clinical figures, and each one translated into blood on the streets, into lost limbs, lost lives, into families putting their loved ones in boxes and lowering them into the ground.

And yet Niskaa, like all planets, looked so blameless from space, hanging touched by the system’s sun. All those people down there, with their clashing emotions, their conflicts, their drives, their hopes and fears, lost in the marble swirls of cloud over green and blue. His own people too; Malcolm and a couple of his team were still working on the surface. Archer put his PADD aside, and resumed his report.

“Warring factions on Niskaa have recently declared ceasefire, and are now attempting to rebuild under a new united government. We’ve been in orbit for almost a month now, offering humanitarian assistance where we can. We’ve had engineering crews restoring power and water supplies to some of the more remote settlements in the northern hemisphere. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Reed has been leading a team assisting local forces in locating and disarming booby-trapped devices left over from the hostilities… Computer, pause.”

Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes still on the planet. The truth was that all they could really contribute was a token gesture towards helping Niskaa heal its wounds. _At least it makes a change_ , he thought, _to be doing something uncomplicatedly helpful for people._

It was a shame to be stuck in orbit for so long and able to let so few people go planet-side, but Niskaa just wasn’t safe to let non-essential teams down to enjoy the air. Especially not in the northern regions, Parmaine Province, where Malcolm was still working. Mines had been laid in the ground and then misplaced by both sides of the conflict; many of them fitted with built-in scramblers that made them difficult to scan for. Even stepping off the paths could be a hazardous business. Archer, who’d been gazing at the green spaces on the world, and idly imagining running Porthos off-leash, caught himself and shuddered.

His communicator chirruped, breaking into his thoughts.

“Sato to Archer.”

“Archer here.”

“Captain, we have a communication from the surface.”

“It is Malcolm?” Malcolm had yet to make his daily check in, and though Archer wasn’t unduly worried – he’d been this late before – evening would be wearing on in Parmaine.

“No, sir, it’s Premier Gruun. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about, just says he wants to speak to you.”

Archer frowned. Gruun was the governor of Parmaine province, an elected official, and he’d been one of their principal contacts on Niskaa. Archer had always found him accommodating, grateful, polite to a fault, but he had an air about him that was pure politician. Archer caught himself checking everything the man said for loopholes and doublespeak.

“Put him through, Hoshi.”

Archer turned to his screen, and saw Gruun’s face appear.

“Premier,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Captain,” Gruun greeted him. Like all Niskaans, he had pale, mottled skin, and eyes of a striking lilac shade. “Apologies for troubling you so late. Most regrettable.”

“We keep our own ship time here, Premier. Is there a problem?”

“Captain, I’m afraid there is. It’s my regret to inform you that there’s been a death.”

Archer’s blood ran cold.

“Who?” he demanded, dreading the answer, whatever it would be, his mind racing through the faces of his people still planet-side. Malcolm, blond-haired Ensign Sorescu, serious-minded Lieutenant Peck… Had someone stepped off a path? Not on Malcolm’s watch, surely. Archer could think of no one he’d trust more to manage a crew in a minefield. He’d watch his team better than he watched himself.

“A man named Armand Eska, Captain, a local man,” Gruun said. Archer was nonplussed for a moment. He composed himself carefully, trying not to let his relief show to an inappropriate level.

“A local man? I’m sorry to hear that, Premier, but what does that have to do with us?”

Archer wasn’t overly familiar with Niskaan facial expressions, but he suspected the look Gruun was wearing would count as shifty on any species.

“It seems Eska was involved in an – uh – incident with one of your officers. Your Lieutenant Reed. The lieutenant claims Eska attacked him with a knife. In the ensuing struggle, Eska was killed.”

“Wait. You’re suggesting my officer killed this man?”

“It’s not a suggestion, I’m afraid, Captain. Lieutenant Reed does not, I understand, deny it, though he maintains he acted in self-defence.”

_Shoot, Malcolm._ “If that’s what he says, Premier, then that’s what happened.” Archer spoke firmly. “Starfleet officers aren’t in the habit of starting brawls.”

“I suggest no such thing, Captain,” Gruun said smoothly. “Your officer is currently being detained by our police in Chibnia. Without force, I assure you, but you understand we must investigate this incident.”

Chibnia, Archer recalled, was the major town in Parmaine province. Detained. Archer didn’t like the sound of that, and imagined Malcolm liked it even less. He had a sudden vision of himself breaking the news to Trip and being told, _Damn, Malcolm’s gonna be madder than a wet hen._

“Is my officer injured?” he asked Gruun.

“There is no serious harm.”

“Any unserious harm?” Archer raised an eyebrow.

“I’m afraid I don’t have that information at present, Captain. Our doctors will have attended him. There is no cause for concern.”

“I’m afraid I am concerned, Premier.” And even more so at Gruun’s slick tone. Archer thought quickly. “If you would return Lieutenant Reed to Enterprise, I can promise you his full cooperation with your investigation, all our cooperation. All of our technology at your disposal. We can remain in orbit until this has been cleared up. I’m sure it’s not necessary for you to hold him.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’m sure this can be resolved. But I’m afraid it’s impossible to allow him to leave at this point. At least, not before the hearing.”

“Hearing?”

“We have scheduled a preliminary hearing for tomorrow morning our time, Captain. We are as keen to resolve this quickly as you are.”

“Wait. Premier, is Lieutenant Reed on trial? Has he been charged?”

“No, no, of course not, Captain. This is simply our procedure. The hearing will determine if further investigation is necessary, whether charges might be brought. It is no cause for concern.”

Archer wished Gruun would stop saying that; his level of concern was raising a notch every time. He glanced at the planet out of his ready room window. Parmaine was on the side of Niskaa he couldn't see, out of the glare of the sun. A thought struck him.

“What time did this happen?”

“I understand the incident took place yesterday evening.”

“Yesterday?” Malcolm had checked in late afternoon yesterday by his local time. He’d given no indication anything was amiss; he’d been preparing to go into Chibnia to speak to the local peace keeping troops about the work he’d been doing in the field.

“Why am I only just being informed?” For the first time, Archer let a hint of his frustration show in his tone.

“Apologies, Captain. Communications, as I'm sure you're aware, can be unreliable here. Power outages. Interference. And I've been out of town myself, I only returned to Chibnia this evening.”

This didn't feel like an answer to Archer, just a string of facts that might or might not be loosely connected.

“I'd like to come down to the surface, so we discuss this face to face,” he said. “And I want to see my officer. Have my doctor check him out, too,” he added, as an afterthought. _No serious harm_ seemed to him to be a phrase with a rather wide margin for error.

“Of course, Captain. Though I assure you a doctor won't be necessary. If he needs medical assistance, he will receive it from our medics. We are not barbarians here in Parmaine.” Gruun's tone remained pleasant, but Archer didn't miss the bite in his words.

“Of course not, Premier,” he echoed Gruun's own tone. “But this is for my own peace of mind. I have a responsibility for my officer's well-being.”

“As do we, Captain, while he is with us. I invite you, freely, to come down to the surface tomorrow. I will have an escort meet you. You can attend the hearing. We can speak then.”

“I want to see my officer. Without delay, Premier. I appreciate it's late for you guys, but you waited until now to inform me –”

“Of course you shall see him, Captain. But tomorrow. It is late for him too. He will be sleeping. He is in safe hands, I assure you. And it may be – let us hope – that he'll be free to leave with you after the hearing in any case.”

“And if not?”

“If you are correct, Captain, and this was certainly self-defence, we can resolve this without further trouble. There is no call for urgency here. Now, you must excuse me. We will speak tomorrow.”

The screen went blank, cutting into Archer's reply. He held himself still, giving himself a second to cool it, then banged his fist against his desk anyway. Politicking bastard. _What the hell happened, Malcolm?_ His armoury officer had told him nothing that indicated any kind of local hostility towards the crew of Enterprise. It was each other, not aliens, Niskaans tended not to care for.

For a moment, he entertained thoughts of busting down to the transporter room, beaming his people off the planet, and warping the hell out of there. But no. Diplomacy first. Gruun was a smooth-talking ass, but he'd not yet shown himself to be dishonest. Archer's mind was already clicking into action, running over his priorities; he'd have to inform Starfleet Command, his senior staff – the ones not currently under arrest, anyway. _Madder than a wet hen_ , he reminded himself, but it didn't feel that funny anymore. He looked again at the glowing planet, hanging unabashed in space.

_So much for being helpful and uncomplicated._

* * *

Niskaa was a green, wet planet, and though they landed at the shuttle port between flurries of rain, the very air was damp, and Archer quickly felt soaked to the bone. He brought only Phlox with him, wanting to keep his away team focused. Trip, in the end, had said nothing about wet hens, but had been hovering as they'd prepared to leave, radiating concern and indignation in equal measures. Warming as Archer found his loyalty to his friend, however, he doubted Gruun would be similarly moved. Archer had also had the rest of Malcolm's team recalled to Enterprise. Malcolm would have recommended it, given the situation, and it felt like an act of keeping faith to be following his advice in his absence.

A vehicle was waiting to take them into Chibnia, and Archer and Phlox passed most of the journey in silence. It was easy, looking at the greenery and open spaces, to forget the planet's recent bloody history. _And hard to imagine Malcolm killed a man here hardly 24 hours ago._ The doctor stared at the scenery, looking merely serenely interested, and Archer was satisfied anew with his decision to bring him, whatever Gruun had said. He couldn't imagine any fight intense enough to finish in a death could have resulted in no injuries. He almost hoped not – not that Malcolm would be hurt, of course, but that the case for self-defence would be clear and obvious.

Niskaa's scars became more apparent as their vehicle trundled into the built up areas. The roads were potholed, and the buildings had an unkempt air, with peeling paint and plants growing in cracks in the walls. There was graffiti on almost every surface, some of it murals by artists of some talent, the rest simply scrawls or obscene images. Towards the centre of town, there were buildings with missing roofs, holes blown in the walls; incongruous on streets full of people going about their business.

To Archer, the Niskaans had a wary, furtive air about them, no one seeming inclined to linger or to smile, but he reminded himself he was judging them through human eyes. He wondered what Malcolm had made of this place, if he'd become friendly with the people he'd been working with. His reports from the surface had been thorough, and even upbeat, since his work had been going well, but typically he'd included no personal insights.

It was raining again when they arrived at the courthouse, and the quality of the drumming suggested that the roof was thin. There were a few other spectators in the court, and Archer and Phlox were directed to sit among them, on wooden, free-standing chairs. As aliens, they drew some curious looks, but nobody spoke to them.

Malcolm was already there when they entered, sitting at a low table across the room, his hands folded neatly out of sight on his lap. He was dressed in a drab, functional grey garment which served to highlight the grey tones already in his skin and eyes. Archer saw with a jolt that he had indeed been hurt – he had a long red slash on his cheek, starting just beneath his right eye and plunging down diagonally to his jawline. The wound had been stitched neatly enough, but it was still vivid against his pale face.

Archer glanced at Phlox as they took their seats, and found him eyeing Malcolm critically too.

“How does he look to you?” Archer whispered.

“Tired,” Phlox replied, simply. “And that wound needs treating with dermitas, or he'll be left with a nasty scar.”

Archer kept watching Malcolm as the room came to order, wanting to catch his eye, but Malcolm seemed fixed on the table in front of him. A Niskaan sat beside him, leaning towards him, and addressing him intently in a low voice. Malcolm had his head inclined slightly in his direction, and he wore a slight frown, as though he was concentrating deeply.

It was some minutes before he even looked up, long enough for Archer to begin to grow concerned. It was unlike Malcolm to be so unalert. When he caught sight of Archer, he seemed to stop himself just short of physically starting. Archer tried to frame his face to look confident, reassuring, and most importantly, not pissed, and was pleased when Malcolm held his eyes steadily, and pursed his lips in a minute and rueful smile.

The Niskaan beside Malcolm had followed his gaze, and leaned to speak to him again. Malcolm broke his look with Archer to turn and answer. The Niskaan had a stylus in his hand, like an old fashioned pen, and he tapped it against his teeth as he listened. Archer had been assured by Gruun that Malcolm would have defence at the hearing, and he assumed this man was it. Archer hoped he was good at his job, but the tooth-tapping made him feel nervous, as though the Niskaan had just a little too much energy bubbling beneath his surface.

There were two other men at the table too, standing firm and unobtrusive beside it, with the stance of guards. Malcolm utterly avoided looking at either of them, which made Archer suspect he was very aware of their presence.

The Premier himself was presiding in court, and he settled himself into his seat with an air of self-importance. He called the room to order, and proceeded to thank all present for attending, including Malcolm, which Archer felt was one layer of bullshit more than was strictly necessary. Gruun introduced Malcolm’s tooth-tapping defence as Advocate Rasak, and another Niskaan who stood to address the court as Agent Fiest.

Malcolm watched Fiest take his place steadily, looking ready to fight, but nonetheless, the first question seemed to take him oddly by surprise.

“Could you give your name, please?”

Malcolm blinked, and glanced at Advocate Rasak beside him, who made an encouraging gesture. He cleared his throat before he spoke, but his voice was clear enough.

“Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.”

Fiest consulted a pad before him.

“‘Lieutenant’ is your rank, correct? Your given name is Malcolm Reed?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“Then please just answer the questions as they are put to you, Lieutenant Reed.”

Malcolm blinked again. Obviously he had been given as little idea of what to expect here as Archer had.

Fiest proceeded to read what Archer assumed was Malcolm's statement, pausing to ask him to confirm points – which Malcolm did with a nod, until Rasak whispered in his ear, after which he replied out loud.

Yes, he had been attending a meeting of the regional peace keeping forces in Chibnia the evening before last. Yes, he had gone to walk back to the compound where he was staying afterwards. Yes, alone. It was only a few hundred yards. Yes, he'd been attacked from behind. His assailant had grabbed him, and thrown him forward. He’d hit his head against the wall. Swung around to find a knife at his face, which had been sliced across his cheek. His assailant hadn’t spoken. He’d gone to stab him, still without speaking, but Malcolm had grabbed the blade in both hands and stopped it – mostly. The point of the blade had gone into his stomach. Here, Fiest flicked to what appeared to be a medical report, which described a shallow wound to Malcolm's torso. Muscle damage only, Fiest said. Yes, Malcolm said. That was correct. By this point, Archer was grinding his teeth at what Gruun had omitted to tell him. But Fiest wasn't done.

Yes, Malcolm confirmed, his attacker had tried to stab him again. Malcolm had caught the knife, and turned it away from himself. His attacker, lunging, had taken the knife in his own chest. His own weight drove it home, Malcolm said. His voice and his expression were bland, but Archer could see the tightness in his jaw from across the room, noted the way he addressed his answers to an empty space beside Fiest rather than speaking right to him.

Fiest put his pad aside, and addressed Malcolm directly.

“So you killed him.”

“I didn't go to kill him.”

“But he did die.”

Malcolm shifted, and seemed to gather himself, but before he could reply, Advocate Rasak spoke from beside him.

“Lieutenant, would you show Agent Fiest your hands.”

Archer had been thinking that something about Malcolm’s pose was oddly static, and when Malcolm moved, he saw why. His armoury officer was in chains, his wrists shacked firmly together and linked back to his waist with a looser chain. He had to lean forward to raise his hands above the table and display them to the court. There were jagged slashes deep in the meat of his palms, and across his fingers. Like the wound on his face, they'd been stitched, but still stood stark and red against his skin. Archer felt a rise of anger, but Advocate Rasak spoke across it, forcing him to clamp down on it and listen.

“Sustaining defensive wounds to the hands is very common in a struggle such as the one Lieutenant Reed describes. It should be noted post mortem examination revealed Armand Eska had no such defensive injuries, which would tend to confirm that Eska was the principal aggressor.”

“Until, of course, he was killed,” Fiest countered. “It doesn't get more aggressive than that.”

“Lieutenant Reed has not denied Eska died at his hands.” Rasak addressed Gruun rather than Fiest. “We're trying to ascertain motive, Premier, and this evidence does indicate self-defence was a legitimate concern.”

Gruun nodded at the advocate, which seemed to mean he'd scored a point. Rasak’s manner was smoother now he was speaking, and Archer felt slightly reassured. Agent Fiest turned back to Malcolm.

“Did you know Armand Eska, Lieutenant Reed?”

“No,” Malcolm said. He had folded his hands back in his lap again, and sat neatly, though his composure seemed slightly shaken. “I didn't know who he was.”

“He just attacked you?”

“As far as I could tell.”

“Nothing in his behaviour implied a motive? Did he demand you hand over possessions, for example? Did he make xenophobic comments to you? Did he attempt to sexually assault you?”

Malcolm flicked an eyebrow at this last, but remained otherwise expressionless.

“No.”

“He said nothing to you at all?”

Malcolm shifted again. His eyes flickered over to Archer.

“No,” he said. “No, he didn't say anything.”

“You are, of course, a security officer aboard your Enterprise?” Fiest continued.

“It's one of my responsibilities.”

“So it is the case that you are trained in hand-to-hand combat? Have you been trained to fight with knives?”

“I've been trained to defend myself,” Malcolm said.

“But you never learned not to grab the sharp end?” Fiest asked, earning himself a chuckle from the onlookers. Malcolm was equal to it, however, and simply replied, “Better in the hand than in the gut.”

“You've been taught that?”

“Actually, I worked that out myself.”

Another chuckle from the court, but Archer felt a rise of unease when Fiest joined in. He doubted the agent would laugh if he felt he was losing the point.

“What do they teach you for such a situation?” Fiest asked.

“That you'll probably get stabbed,” Malcolm returned evenly.

“That's a pessimistic outlook.”

“When an unarmed man is attacked with a knife, it's pessimistic odds.”

Regulations in Parmaine forbade the carrying of firearms on the streets for everyone except troops and police, a ban which had included Enterprise’s away teams. Malcolm hadn't been too happy about it, of course, but Archer had considered it nothing but another bureaucratic inconvenience, since his people would be working closely alongside Niskaan troops anyway. Now he had to remind himself not to waste energy cursing his own lack of foresight.

“So, aware of these pessimistic odds, you decided to even them?” Fiest pressed on.

“I didn't decide anything. I just reacted. He'd already stabbed me. I didn't know how badly... I mean, I didn't know if it was bad. I couldn't exactly stop to check.”

“Not that bad, as it turned out.”

“No. I didn't know that.” Malcolm’s voice was carefully bland.

“But there must have been a point, when you had the knife in your hands, that you ended up pointing it at him, sticking it in him,” Fiest persisted. “There must have been a decision involved.”

“I didn't even have hold of the knife properly. I just grabbed it and turned it, and he ran into me.”

“But you turned it towards him.”

“I turned it away from myself.”

Fiest regarded Malcolm for a moment, speculatively. Malcolm's head was slightly lowered, but he returned Fiest’s gaze steadily. That, and his tightened jaw, gave his pose a touch of defiance in Archer's eyes. He hoped Fiest wouldn't detect this and misread it. After a loaded second of silence, Fiest changed tack.

“Have you been to Niskaa before?”

“No, I haven't.”

Rasak stood again. “The crew of the Enterprise are the first members of Lieutenant Reed's species to visit Niskaa. There is no documented record of any human having been here before.”

“No documented record.” Fiest nodded slowly. “Lieutenant, it may interest you to know that Armand Eska was a member of a Separatist cell during the troubles here. He was imprisoned for his role in the bombing of a public transport vehicle here in Chibnia. A device attached to the underside. Eleven civilians were killed.”

Malcolm looked genuinely shaken. “That's terrible,” he said.

“Indeed. But such things were common place here on Niskaa. Unificationists have split their share of blood also. But this is all past now. Since you are new to our planet, I will explain – the treaty which secured the ceasefire and established our united government included a clause which required the release of key prisoners on either side of the conflict. As a good will gesture. Eska was one such, released on a peace bond eight months ago.”

“Oh,” Malcolm said, since something seemed to be expected of him.

“So you see how odd it is that he would attack you.”

“Perhaps he doesn't like the work I've been doing in Parmaine. It may be his work we've been disarming.”

“It may well be. But such things, as I said, are behind us. We acknowledge fault and blame lies with both sides. Eska put his name to the ceasefire agreement, pledged to lay down arms. You've been working for the same peace which guaranteed his release.”

“Perhaps he wasn't so committed to it as you believe.”

“Perhaps. Either way, we are left with a great many questions that you don't seem able to answer.”

“I can –” Malcolm had to clear his throat. “I can only account for my own behaviour. I can't account for his.”

“Nor can I, Lieutenant. And you see, the strange thing is, you being a stranger to Niskaa and all, is that Eska claimed that he knew you.”

A ripple of interest ran through the court. Archer frowned.

“Did you hold a séance?” For the first time, Malcolm’s tone was really defensive; snappish even, and Archer sent him a silent warning to keep his cool. Fortunately, Fiest seemed only nonplussed, and Archer hoped the remark hadn't translated. Rasak stood again before Fiest could reply.

“To clarify, Premier, Eska claimed that he was going out to meet a man he knew yesterday evening. He did not identity this man as Lieutenant Reed.”

“And yet Lieutenant Reed was the man that he met,” Fiest said.

“This is circumstantial.”

“Thank you, Advocate,” the Premier rumbled.

Malcolm broke his eye contact with Fiest and looked at Rasak as he sat again, a frown etched on his forehead. His moment of snappishness seemed to have passed. He blinked, looking for a moment more confused than angry, and Archer was struck again by how tired he looked. He hoped the timing of Rasak's interruption was more than just fortunate. Malcolm could use a canny and understanding counsel.

Fiest inclined his head to concede Rasak's point, and continued.

“The last person to see Eska alive, as far as we can discern, was his brother. That's apart from yourself, of course. He gave us a statement this morning. He claims Eska told him he was going out to pay a call on an old business partner. An off-worlder, he said. Barely two hours later, he was dead at your hands. An off-worlder.”

The pause before Malcolm answered felt slightly too long. Perhaps he was waiting for Rasak to intervene again, as Archer half expected he might, but the advocate made no move to.

“Perhaps he mistook me,” Malcolm said, eventually.

“And yet, as Advocate Rasak has confirmed, no member of your species has visited this planet before. So you would have us believe he mistook you not only for another individual, but for a member of an entirely different species. Quite a coincidence that there should be a resemblance.”

“It was dark,” Malcolm said, though he sounded doubtful himself now. Fiest nodded, and changed tack again.

“I have described to you the kind of business Eska has done, the kind of business we might assume any former partner of his would also know. Let's see...” Fiest read from his pad. “The bomb on the bus in Chibnia was a radio detonated device. It says here peroxyacetone detonating thermite. Are these the kinds of devices you've been dealing with in your time here?”

“No,” Malcolm said. “We've been working with booby trapped devices, mines, not remote detonated explosives.”

“Some of the same chemicals, perhaps?”

“No, not the same.”

“I wonder why not.”

Since Fiest was plainly expecting an answer, Malcolm gave him one.

“Thermite is difficult to detonate. It wouldn't be much use in a booby trap, it wouldn't go off.” Fiest was still looking at him expectantly, so he continued. “Peroxyacetone... I wouldn't be surprised to find it in a mine, but we haven't. But a lot of the devices we’ve been working with are old, forgotten. Peroxyacetone is very unstable, too unstable to stay dormant for very long.”

“Interesting. Thank you, Lieutenant. Another factor which you may not be aware of is that acetones don't occur naturally here on Niskaa. Wherever we have found peroxyacetone in devices here it has off-world origins, smuggled here, no doubt, by the kind of man Eska might call his associate. As I'm sure you've learned, most of our equipment is calibrated to detect nitrogen-based explosives. By using exotic chemicals, terrorist cells were able to build devices which evaded detection.”

Malcolm looked a little pale at that, and Archer didn't blame him; he'd seen the trap Fiest's line of questioning was leading to too.

“Would you be able to make a bomb like that, Lieutenant Reed?” Fiest's tone was conversational, but the look in his eye was precise. Malcolm shifted, his shackles clinking audibly in the silent room.

“I need to understand how they work. I couldn't take them apart if I didn't.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That's not what I do.”

“I didn't ask what you do. Could you build a bomb like that?”

Malcolm hesitated. Archer watched Rasak, thinking if he was any defence worth his salt, he'd intervene, but the advocate was still now, inexpressive.

“I would know how,” Malcolm said, eventually. Fiest seemed to find this admission enough. He nodded, and turned to Gruun.

“Premier,” he said. This seemed to mark a finish. Gruun raised an eyebrow at Rasak, who stood.

“Premier, Agent Fiest has offered nothing but circumstantial evidence to the court today. Lieutenant Reed's injuries are consistent with his version of events. He has been cooperative. He did not try to run, as a guilty man might. I agree this incident raises some unsettling questions, but if Lieutenant Reed’s account is accurate, it follows that he would not be able to answer them.”

“Fiest?” Gruun said.

“Premier, I accept that my evidence is circumstantial. I submit, however, I have established that this incident warrants further investigation. That Eska should go out to meet a particular off-worlder with whom he used to do business, and instead meet another, who apparently shares both sufficient physical resemblance and expertise in the same field is quite a coincidence. I also remain unsatisfied by aspects of Lieutenant Reed's account. I move for charges to be pressed, and a thorough investigation conducted.”

“I agree,” Gruun said. “Lieutenant Reed, you are hereby charged with the unlawful death of Armand Eska, and will stand trial at a date to be determined. Thank you, gentlemen.”

The verdict came so abruptly, and with such firmness, that Archer was taken unawares. Beside him, Phlox shifted and clucked his tongue. Malcolm, in contrast, hardly seemed to react at all; his eyes locked on the empty air before him. Archer looked to Advocate Rasak, wanting him to protest, but the advocate was simply gathering his papers, looking as though he was having a perfectly normal day at the office. _That was it?_ Archer thought. _Your whole defence? A few nitpicks, a ten second speech, and then you just let them have him?_ He stood.

“Premier, I object,” he said, his voice carrying and clear. The eyes of the court turned towards him, Rasak frozen in the act of shuffling papers, Gruun paused in the middle of a low conversation with one his aides. Malcolm looked up abruptly too, as the two guards stepped into place beside him, displacing Rasak and placing firm hands on his shoulders.

“This is out of line, Premier,” Archer spoke on. “This man has been on your planet, helping your people disarm mines, and you’re pressing charges against him because he knows how a bomb works?”

“Captain Archer!” Gruun shouted across him. “I insist you sit down. You'll show respect for our process or you won't be welcome on our planet.”

“Respect?” Archer fired back. “You've shown no respect for me, or for my officer, Gruun.”

“Be mindful of what we agreed, Captain. If you don't sit down now, you'll have no visit with your officer. If you can't contain yourself, you'll be found in contempt of court. I'll have you removed.”

The court room was deadly silent. Malcolm was on his feet now. One of his guards had a hand on his arm; the other took a step away, towards Archer, waiting to act on Gruun's command. Malcolm's pose was tensed, his eyes on Archer, as though looking for a cue. He looked ready to fight, and Archer realised in a flash that it was himself that Malcolm was ready to fight for, even in chains, if the guard moved towards him.

It hit him then that they were cornered; that he had no way of preventing them from taking Malcolm away, and no means to do anything but make things worse by shouting. Best case scenario, he'd lose his visit; worst case, he'd get himself arrested too, and Malcolm into deeper trouble for trying to defend him. Either way, he'd let Malcolm down. He couldn't do that. He swallowed.

“Excuse me, Premier,” he said, though gritted teeth, and sat.

He couldn't watch as they took Malcolm away. He felt like a heel. He looked at Phlox instead, and read his own concern and consternation written on the doctor's face.

“Boy, are we not done here,” he said to Phlox, because he had to say it to someone.

* * *

Archer wanted to speak with Gruun right away to have it out, but was met instead by one of his aides, polite to a fault and impassable He told them that the Premier would speak with them later – but in the meantime, if they wanted to visit with Lieutenant Reed, their escort was waiting with a vehicle to take them to the holding facility. They hadn't left the courthouse, however, before a voice hailed them.

“Captain Archer, Captain Archer!” Archer turned to see Advocate Rasak hustling down the corridor towards them, his arms full of papers.

“Captain, I'm Advocate Rasak.” He dipped his head in greeting.

“Advocate? You're Malcolm's defence lawyer, right?” Archer lowered his voice, but didn't bother to try and hide his anger. “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Rasak glanced about them. “Do you have a minute to speak, Captain? My office is just here.”

“Only a minute. I have a visit with my officer.”

“You do have a visit? That's good. Lieutenant Reed was asking, I didn't know.”

Archer was no expert on Niskaan physiology, but close to, Rasak looked very young. Like all his people, he had bright coloured eyes, and he moved with fast, darting motions like a bird. Archer introduced Phlox, who was eyeing Rasak's sheath of papers with interest.

“I don't suppose you have a copy of Lieutenant Reed’s medical report in there?” Rasak hesitated, and Phlox added smoothly, “Premier Gruun agreed to my examination.” It sounded good, but Rasak had clearly met Gruun, since his brows came together in faint suspicion.

“Please, I won't keep you.” He gestured, and Archer allowed him to shepherd them into his office. Rasak deposited his bundle of files on his already loaded desk, rifled through them, and drew out a sheet which he handed to Phlox.

“As it happens,” he said. “I am permitted to conduct my own investigations into the evidence the court presents, so let's call this that. If you notice anything untoward, please tell me.”

Phlox nodded in thanks, but Archer was not mollified. Rasak's behaviour in court still defied his understanding. Clearly this showed in his face, because Rasak was raising his hands in a conciliatory way before he even began.

“This is a very sensitive case for us, Captain,” he said, speaking quickly. “You must understand that if what Lieutenant Reed says is true, it could have serious consequences. Our peace is built on this treaty that secured Eska's release from prison. If Eska attacked Lieutenant Reed because he's been disarming bombs in Parmaine, then he's working to undermine that ceasefire, and our united government. We can't accept that without close investigation.”

“It sounds to me like Lieutenant Reed has been caught in the middle of your politics,” Archer told him. “We have every sympathy for your situation; we've been working here to help you, but I draw the line at scapegoating one of my people to save your government face.”

“This isn't a case of finding a scapegoat. Were the implications less dire for us, I doubt they would even try him. Had it been anyone but Eska... ” Off Archer's look, Rasak added, a touch defensively, “You asked why, and this is why.”

Archer paced, in his frustration, the length of Rasak's office. It amounted to about two steps before he had to turn around. “So this terrorist, this murderer,” he said. “Kills eleven people for his political cause, gets released from prison in some kind of forgive-and-forget deal – and then he attacks my officer, and my officer is the one who has to answer for that?”

“Forgetting was not part of the deal.” There was no defensiveness in Rasak’s voice now; instead, Archer heard echoes of the courtroom. “Captain, political causes have divided our culture. Each side has traded blood for blood for generations until it hardly mattered what words like _Separatist_ and _Unificationist_ meant – only that you were one, and that man over there was not. Perhaps you've never noticed how remarkable it feels to walk down the street without fearing for your life. We must protect our peace.”

Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head was spinning. “I understand that,” he said, softening his tone. “Look, your Agent Fiest said this Eska was going to meet someone he knew. He doesn't know my officer, I can assure you of that. It's not possible. If he mistook Malcolm for someone he has a personal grudge against, that's got nothing to do with him, or your ceasefire.”

“Eska's business associates, sadly, would tend to have a lot to do with our ceasefire. He might have breached the terms of his release just by trying to meet this person, and who knows for what purpose. Besides which, Eska's brother could have lied to cover his true motive – he has Separatist loyalties himself.”

“There's a lot of mights and could haves there, Advocate.”

“Precisely our problem. Captain, look –” Rasak lowered his voice. “Legally, we couldn't hold your officer any longer without charges being brought. It's possible the Premier charged him simply to keep him here, so we can conduct our investigation. If nothing else, he's a key witness. If you took him back to your ship and left, we might never get the answers we need.”

“Your premier could have just asked us to stick around. I promised him we'd cooperate.”

“Politicians,” Rasak said, with a wry smile. “They judge everyone by their own standards – and so they don't trust anyone. Look, you should go and have your visit. I'll be here all afternoon, if you wish to speak further. And please, if you or your doctor learn anything new, understand I'm not your enemy here. I'm sure we can help each other.”

Archer was less sure, but he recognised that Rasak had at least given him some answers. He nodded his thanks.

“Is anything untoward?” he asked Phlox, as he handed the report back.

“I'll tell you once I've compared it with the real thing.”

But that wasn't quite so simple either. At the holding facility, they were met with another demonstration of the Niskaan art of being faultlessly polite and yet utterly unhelpful. Of course they were expected, and welcome to visit, but they couldn't be permitted to bring alien medical equipment into the facility – it was against procedure, and in any case unnecessary; they had medics of their own. Archer wondered if Gruun had briefed these people.

Archer, fearing a deadlock, and being forced to leave without a visit, suggested a compromise – they'd leave their equipment at the front desk, for now, but Phlox himself was coming in.

They were allowed, finally, to have their meeting in a well-lit room with only one chair, already occupied by Malcolm when they entered. A guard stood at attention in the corner, unobtrusive, but nonetheless there. Archer's first words as he entered were directed towards him.

“Is that really necessary?” For Malcolm was still shackled, and the way he held his hands neatly folded in his lap as though he chose that position felt like a final straw to Archer. He had to turn his face away to manage his anger.

“Procedure,” the guard replied.

“It's alright, Captain,” Malcolm said softly. He had the knack, always had, of being able to drop his voice without losing any of the edge, the firmness, in his tone. He was so entirely himself in this alien situation that Archer felt bad for not greeting him properly straight away. He made up for it by moving to him now, clasping him by the shoulder hard. Malcolm moved to stand, but Archer made it plain with his free hand that he needn't. Close to, he looked about as sick as Archer had ever seen him, pale beneath the slash on his face, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with shadow.

“How are you doing?” Archer asked him. He wasn't sure, but he could have sworn Malcolm's eyes slid to the guard for a split second before he answered.

“Getting by, sir.” He offered a wry, tired smile.

Phlox, meanwhile, troubled himself with no such social niceties. After simply saying, “Lieutenant,” which Malcolm answered with a nod, the doctor moved straight into his personal space and started probing at the cut on his cheek.

Archer turned to the guard again and asked, “Could we have a moment alone?”

“I'm afraid not, sir. Procedure.”

“They're fond of procedure here,” Malcolm said.

“You noticed that too, huh?” Archer had a sense that Malcolm was being pointedly light, trying to defuse trouble before it might start. He opted to concede, to let Malcolm have some power over his situation, at least. Besides, it would hardly reassure him to catch a glimpse of the extent of Archer’s frustration.

“Captain, I am sorry about this,” Malcolm said, having to look at Archer from the corner of his eye in order to keep his head still for Phlox.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Archer said firmly. “We're going to sort this out, Malcolm. Don't you worry.”

“I'm sure we will, sir.”

Archer was a loss as to what say then that wasn't a platitude. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, about what happened, about Malcolm's reading of the politics here, about how he'd been treated, but none of those seemed topics sensible to raise in front of the Niskaan guard.

Phlox tilted Malcolm's head until he was staring at the ceiling light and peered at his pupils. Malcolm submitted matter-of-factly enough, but Archer felt like an intruder into this necessary intimacy between doctor and patient. In some ways, he reflected, Phlox must know Malcolm better than any of them.

Watching them together, something about Malcolm struck Archer as oddly passive. Perhaps it was because the shackles restricted him, but he moved only when Phlox prompted him to do so, and allowed himself to be physically manipulated without resistance. When Phlox moved to touch his hands, however, he flinched.

“I'm sorry,” Phlox said. “May I see?”

Malcolm raised his hands as high as his restraints would let him. Archer could have sworn he detected a tremble, but Phlox caught Malcolm’s hands and cupped them, palms up, in his own, before he could be sure. Phlox bent close to look at the wounds, turning them this way and that to catch the light. Malcolm watched a spot on the wall until his eyes began to glaze.

“The wounds are clean,” Phlox observed, acerbically, as though this was the best that could be said of them. Malcolm's attention was recalled by his words. He blinked.

“I can't bend my fingers properly,” he said. “Particularly on the right.”

“There may be some damage to the tendons,” Phlox said. “Can you try for me?”

Malcolm did, unable to hide a grimace, and Phlox quickly called his efforts to a halt. Archer leaned to look. Malcolm's hands looked tense and clawed, and the cuts were jagged and deep, across the palms and fingers. The right did look worse – his grabbing hand, Archer reasoned. The violence of the attack was brought home to him; the slam of bodies on brick work, and Malcolm, in desperation, catching the blade in his bare hands to save himself.

“Rasak was right to ask you to show those in court,” Archer said. “I don't know how anyone can look at that and doubt it was self-defence.”

“They have their jobs to do, I suppose,” Malcolm said. Archer looked at him thoughtfully. It was like Malcolm to fall back on wry humour, like him to be pragmatic too, but though the words were right, something in his manner wasn't. Archer had noticed it in court a little too, though he'd put it down to stress and nerves. But Malcolm seemed worse now; monotone, and looking like he might just fall asleep at any moment.

“I'd like to have a look at that stab wound,” Phlox was saying. He helped Malcolm strip his shirt off over his head – carefully, and awkward, because of the chains. The shirt had to stay looped around his wrists since it couldn't be pulled off past the shackles.

Half stripped, Malcolm hardly had the presence of a killer. He was lean and pale under the artificial lights, with bruises on his torso, keeping his arms out of Phlox's way as best as he was able. There was a pad taped over the wound on his side, and Phlox dispensed with this quickly.

Archer had been making a small effort at looking modestly away, but now he stepped over to look at the damage. He saw a short, ugly gash, ringed with bruises, right above Malcolm's right hip. Malcolm held his breath while Phlox probed at the wound.

“How bad is it?” Archer asked.

“It would be easier to say if I had my scanner,” Phlox remarked. “But I see nothing here to contradict the medical report. It does seem to be just muscle damage. This was the evening before last now?” This last to Malcolm, who missed a beat before nodding.

“Yes,” Phlox continued. “If the blade had struck any major organs, you'd be very unwell indeed by this point. You were lucky. An inch or so to the left, and you might have had a perforated intestine.”

“I saw it coming,” Malcolm said. “I was twisting away.” He frowned, but whether at the memory, or because Phlox had started poking at the bruises on his rib cage, Archer couldn't tell. Archer removed his scrutiny again, and looked round at the nothing in the room, letting his eyes slide past the guard, pretending not to hear as Phlox asked Malcolm if it hurt here, or here, or how about if he pressed here.

When he looked again, Phlox was helping Malcolm work his shirt back on. This done, he pressed firm fingers to Malcolm's chin and tilted his head to the lights again.

“You hit your head during the attack,” he said. A statement rather than a question, but Malcolm nodded anyway, against his hands.

“I think you have a concussion,” Phlox told him. Malcolm smiled minutely.

“I concur,” he said.

“Glad to hear it.” Silence for half a minute as Phlox shifted his fingers to Malcolm's neck to take his pulse. Malcolm kept his gaze on the ceiling, and when Phlox finished, he looked back with the air of someone whose thoughts had been recalled from miles away.

“Have you been given any medication?” Phlox asked.

Again, Malcolm's eyes flickered to the guard, rather slower this time, and Archer had the uneasy suspicion he was supposed to notice. But when Malcolm spoke, his tone was normal enough.

“An antibiotic, they said. And an analgesic.”

“I see. Well, as far as I can see, the medical report I've seen was largely accurate. To be blunt, you're a bit banged up, but you'll live. Your hands concern me the most, but with proper treatment, there's no reason there should be any permanent damage. I'd like, if I can, to speak with the medic here,” Phlox looked at Archer at this point, who nodded consent. “Meanwhile, I'd recommend you try to get as much rest as you can.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” Malcolm said, a little dryly, but if Phlox noticed, he didn't let on.

Instead, Phlox stepped back and announced that he would go and try and locate that medic now, if it was alright with the captain. He turned to the Niskaan guard, and asked if he’d be so good as to show him the way. For a moment, Archer thought Phlox might be able to persuade the guard to leave with him, but at the last moment, the guard halted in the doorway, and gave complicated directions instead. Undeterred, Phlox interrupted him for clarification several times, and then repeated them back to him wrongly.

Archer, feeling a wave of gratitude towards the doctor, took full advantage the guard’s distraction. He crouched beside Malcolm's chair and spoke to him in a low voice.

“How are you really? Are you alright?”

“I'm okay, sir,” Malcolm said. He glanced towards the door, then leaned forward. “Sir, I really didn't... I didn't go to kill that man, I didn't mean to –”

“I know. I know,” Archer cut in. “We're caught up in some politics here. But we're going to work it out, I promise you.”

“I'm sure.” Malcolm's chains clinked as he shifted his weight. “But, sir –”

But at that point, the guard, having disposed of Phlox, clicked the door shut behind him, and stepped back into his position. Malcolm sat back up, leaving his sentence dangling in the silence of the room. He moved to raise his hands to his face, and hit the end of his chain before he remembered.

They talked in a desultory fashion for a few minutes more, Archer doing his best to sound upbeat, but Malcolm wasn't a great smalltalker at the best of times. He seemed to be zoning out again, blinking far too often, and far too slowly.

When the guard signalled their time was up, Archer reached for his shoulder again.

“I'll see you again soon,” he said. “Don't worry. Rest, like the doc said.”

Malcolm nodded, and rose to his feet as the guard stepped towards him. Archer was turning away when Malcolm spoke again behind him.

“Captain,” he said, abruptly. “Sir, I can't bend my fingers. Look.” He raised his hands to show, as best he could.

Archer frowned at Malcolm’s face instead, unsure if he was aware that he was repeating himself – but he found Malcolm’s eyes were sharp, and pointed, and fixed on his. He looked.

Malcolm was right; he really couldn’t bend his fingers well, and he had to hold the ones he was trying to lower at right angles to his palm rather than folding them away. It cost him something to do so, too; there was no question his hands were trembling now. It took Archer a second to see past this to what he was being shown.

On his right hand, Malcolm was holding up three fingers. On his left hand, he was holding up one.

The guard stepped between them. Malcolm let his hands drop, and lowered his eyes, and Archer was ushered from the room. He felt like he’d taken a curveball to the gut. Memories came flooding back of the last time he’d seen Malcolm trapped like this, cornered by questions he just couldn’t answer, except that time it had been at his own hands. But it hadn’t been Archer who’d put Malcolm in that corner in the first place. It had been Harris, and his Section 31.

  



	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm lay on his side on the bunk in his cell, his eyes screwed shut against the humming lights, but he couldn't shut his eyes against what was in his own head. Absurdly, he kept thinking of fish. Fishing in the Tamar as a boy – and the filleting after. The knife sliding up inside, pulling everything loose. If Eska had had his way, Malcolm knew, he would have died on his knees with his hands full of guts, and his final expression one of dumb animal surprise. A few people might have mourned the person they thought he was.

Malcolm knew he’d been lucky. He’d been better than lucky; he knew he’d been fast. Faster than Eska, who’d wanted be messy, cut a smile in Malcolm’s belly, and that split second where he wasn’t being stabbed in the back or the chest or the throat or anywhere that might have killed him, had given Malcolm the room for a fight. On some level, it was almost offensive to his own meticulous nature – all so untidy, not that death was ever tidy, but still. Inefficient. He’d already worked out, in detail, at least five ways that Eska could have done better.

And now he couldn’t shake the fight off. His adrenaline, helpfully, permanently, still pounding, making him feel sick now he had no outlet for it. His mind kept roaming, off down Niskaan streets, the tiny, tangled back roads in Chibnia, following the big public transport vehicles that weaved between the high rows of houses, carrying civilians about their day. Civilians, and Eska’s deadly cargo. A boom, and body parts flying, burning. A moment of deathly shock before the screaming started.

No. Shouldn’t think about that. Not the part that was really his problem. Malcolm couldn’t raise his hands to cover his face; they were still chained down. Two days now, and the lights had never been switched off. He couldn’t shut his eyes tight enough. They were eating him alive, making his head pound, framing his face into a permanent half wince, half frown.

He couldn’t shake the memories either, heavy on him. Eska’s weight dragging him down. The knife turning in his belly, twisting Malcolm’s wrist painfully, trapping it between them. Eska belching out his last breath, and then the silence, suddenly loud in Malcolm’s ears. The empty street watchful all around him. Wherever he'd touched himself, his hands had come away bloody. Too long before he realised it was his hands that were bleeding, not the rest of him.  
He’d sat with his back to the wall, and waited. Watched Eska, dead in his eyeline, a big guy with his belly arched, and the knife protruding obscenely. He didn't know how long it had been before the Niskaan police arrived. They’d had to pick him up off the ground, his banged head taking him over, and the world reeling dizzily around him.

It had been a comfort at first, to be inside, somewhere small and bright, but he'd had to wait indeterminably, dripping blood under the lights, for a medic, who took a couple of pokes at him, and then called a superior, which meant yet more waiting. His requests to contact Enterprise had been ignored. They'd dabbed him clean, shoved needles in his arms, then stitched him up – a slow, laborious process, and so painful on his hands that only grim force of will prevented him from screaming.

It had been the small hours of yesterday morning by then, and they hadn't been done with him yet. They questioned him in shifts. Malcolm made his statement as best he could, and then they picked and picked at it, asking the same questions over and over, changing their phrasing, trying to come at him from angles, catch him out. He watched for traps in their words, did his best to keep up, answer simply, but as the hours wore on and the lights hummed and his head pounded, Malcolm retreated further and further into monosyllables, and then into silence.

Rasak had told him afterwards that silence wouldn't help his case; that he should try to answer, but that was easy for the advocate to say, all bright-eyed after a good night's sleep, and his head not having been recently firmly acquainted with a wall.

He wished they’d let him shower, or wash, or something. Just access to a sink for five minutes with his hands unchained. The medics had mopped him up and given him clean clothes, but Malcolm was sure he could still feel blood on himself, ingrained under his fingernails, and encrusted in the fine hair on his arms. He had no idea what he must look like, either – he hadn’t even remembered his face had been cut until they’d started to stitch it, and he hadn’t seen a mirror.

The lights made his vision rich red with his eyes closed. This was definitely his fault, all of it, in a way that he hadn’t quite worked out yet, and he had a gut-sinking feeling he’d just gone and made things worse. Didn’t envy the captain, having this landed in his lap again. Malcolm should have kept his mouth shut, and his hands down.

He lay still as death, ignoring himself fiercely, and tried to will sleep to come and take him. It even started to work, he was that tired, but as soon as his thoughts dimmed and his tongue grew thick, there was a rattle at his door, the guard on his rounds, and Malcolm was shaken back to wakefulness. The lights assaulted his eyes, and his mind roamed round Chibnia, finding death on every street.

* * *

Archer caught up with Phlox sitting by the front desk, settled in to wait for the medic with the air of someone prepared to hold out till kingdom come. Archer sat beside him for a moment, and had to make an effort to pull his thoughts away from the Section, Qu'vat, Terra Prime, conspiracies on every corner, to focus on the more mundane matter of Phlox's examination.

They talked in low tones, though none of the Niskaans going about their work around them seemed to take any interest in their presence. It was almost an added slight; this situation, so dire and vital to Malcolm himself, seemed like just another day's work, just an alien upheaval, to the staff here. _Just another day's violence_ , Archer reminded himself, thinking of what Rasak had told him. _A cycle that's got to end somewhere._

“Malcolm seemed like he was zoning in and out in there,” he said to Phlox.

“Yes, I observed that too,” Phlox said. “He appeared to be struggling to concentrate.”

“Could that be the concussion?”

“That could certainly be a factor.”

“It could be something else?”

“He certainly seems exhausted, which would also contribute. I think we can safely assume he hasn't slept well. I'm also wondering about the medication they gave him.”

“You think he might have been drugged?”

“Hard to say. His pupil response seemed unusual, but then, I didn't have proper equipment. That may also be down to the concussion. Or possibly, he's having a reaction to the treatment they gave him. The medics here won’t be used to dosing humans. As a species, I must say you can be surprisingly intolerant.”

“I hear you, Doc,” Archer lowered his voice further. “And what I'm hearing is, for whatever reason, Malcolm was in no fit state to be expected to defend himself today.”

“Certainly not at optimum. But he was coherent enough, in court. I get the impression from our Advocate Rasak there was little he could have said to avoid a further investigation.” Phlox glanced at him. “I'm not unduly worried, Captain. If he gets some rest, he should recover.”

“If,” Archer intoned darkly, not wanting to be reassured. He was grateful to have Phlox with him, however. His pragmatism was soothing, and his ingenuity had certainly come in handy.

Archer made the decision to make Rasak's office his next stop. He was itching for a showdown with Gruun, but at the same time aware the Premier had been wrong-footing him from the start, and damned if he was going to let him get away with it. Rasak might at least be able to arm him with a better understanding of the facts before he went in there.

“Are you going to wait for this medic?” he asked Phlox, as he stood to leave.

“If you're agreeable. I'd like to get some answers.”

“Yeah. So would I.”

* * *

Advocate Rasak seemed snowed under with paperwork when Archer knocked at his door. His office was a clutter of files, pads and papers, a few pictures crooked on the wall, and a noisy time piece sitting on a shelf. He had, he explained, two more cases to defend tomorrow, but even so he set his work aside, invited Archer to sit, and provided him with a mug of a warm local brew which smelled like aniseed.

Archer watched him while he prepared the drinks. His first impression, that Rasak was young, still stuck, and Archer noted he had a slight accent when he spoke that Gruun and Fiest lacked. He also had an air about him as though he were always in a hurry, though it might have been that he simply was. As the court-appointed advocate, he explained, he had no shortage of clients needing his services.

Archer found himself wanting to like the man, to listen to him, but he cautioned himself to keep his suspicion. He was so desperate for an ally, a straight talker, in this place he couldn't afford to let that drive him to trust too easily. Besides, Rasak's performance, or lack of it, in court, still grated on him.

“So, you're my officer's defence counsel,” Archer began. “Doesn't that mean you're supposed to defend him?”

Rasak did not seem put out by the question, but he took a moment to take his own seat, to settle himself, before he replied simply;

“I did.”

“Really? Your man Agent Fiest was badgering him on that stand, and none of what he had was evidence. Malcolm wouldn't be here on Niskaa, putting himself at risk for your people, if he didn't know how a bomb works.”

“I understand that, Captain. What Fiest – who is not _my_ man, by the way – presented to the court was purely circumstantial, and I said so.”

“And yet he was charged anyway.”

“Yes. As I explained to you, there are other factors at hand here.” Rasak spoke simply, as though this settled the matter. Archer felt himself frown.

“My doctor says Lieutenant Reed has a concussion. I'm not convinced he was even fit to be on that stand.”

“In my estimation, Lieutenant Reed was giving an acceptable account of himself,” Rasak said. “Had I felt he was misrepresenting himself, I would have intervened. But Agent Fiest is entitled to have answers to his questions, even unpalatable ones.”

“Aren't you meant to be on our side?”

“As advocate, I must ensure my client's case is heard fairly, that they are allowed to answer charges, and that their rights are observed. It's not my job to assist someone in presenting themselves in a better light than they deserve.”

“I see.” Archer sipped his drink. It tasted vile. “Lawyers have a slightly different job description on my world.”

“Apparently so.” Rasak gave him a small, even apologetic, smile. “I understand this is all alien to you, but this is our system. Our ethic is that truth and justice should prevail, not the man who can afford the best lawyer.”

“I'm really having a hard time reconciling that with what happened here today. If this goes to a full trial,” Archer said, thinking he was damned if he'd let it come to that, “Could they convict him on the evidence we heard today?”

“No. For a conviction, Fiest will need something better. Some proof of malicious intent, or a prior connection between your officer and Eska.” Rasak paused. “Or a confession, of course.”

“And you'd be the one defending him? But not actually on his side – on the side of truth and justice, right?” Archer couldn't keep a cynical note from his voice.

“Right. But Captain, this should only be a source of concern to you if Lieutenant Reed isn't being truthful. If you're convinced this can't be the case, then our goals are the same.”

“Of course,” Archer concurred, but his sense of disquiet remained. The Niskaan system seemed just on the surface, but a lot seemed to hinge on the advocate being truly impartial. Rasak might be a stand-up guy, but if he was swayed by the prosecutor's case, Malcolm wouldn't stand a chance.

And then there was that wildcard that Malcolm had thrown him, that furtive thirty-one. If Harris and his lot were somewhere in the picture, all assurances the truth would out were off. Were they setting Malcolm up? Was this some kind of personal vendetta, because he'd spurned them, an attempt to silence a former agent who could expose them, or was there something wider? Did Section 31 have some interest in destabilising Niskaa? Archer couldn't imagine what that could be, but then, not so long ago, he couldn't have imagined why a Starfleet officer would be covering up for Klingons. Without more information, he was punching in the dark.

“I want access to my officer,” he told Rasak. “Regular access, until this is resolved. And I want to speak to him alone.”

“It's beyond my power to grant that, I'm afraid, Captain. But I can make the request on your behalf.”

Archer felt a rise of frustration, and sipped at his drink again to stop himself from showing it.

“Malcolm is a loyal Starfleet officer,” he told Rasak. “He's a professional, a good man, a principled man. He's not a terrorist, or a murderer, or a street brawler.”

Rasak’s face remained politely expressionless, and Archer glared at him over the rim of his cup.

“You don't think he might have done this – whatever – do you? Dammit, I don't even know what it is Fiest thinks he might be guilty of.”

“Officially, Captain, I must be objective about possibilities. Unofficially...” Rasak glanced to the door, as though hidden forces listening at it might suddenly burst in. “Unofficially, I see no reason to think he's guilty of anything beyond defending himself. I don't understand Eska's actions either, but then Eska has been responsible for many actions I don't even wish to understand.”

“Do you believe the system you serve is truly just?” Archer asked. He wanted to get the measure of this man. Rasak laced his fingers, thought a moment, before replying.

“During the troubles, the Judiciary would try men for crimes they didn't commit, for killings, bombings, to save public face, because they couldn't – or wouldn't – touch the terrorist cells who were really responsible. Everyone knew this, everyone, but no one could speak.”

“And this is the system my officer is being tried in?”

“No, no, Captain. That's the old way. We have a united government now, the cells have disarmed, disbanded. Both sides accept their share of the blame and have committed to reconciliation. But this is why I became an advocate – so I could speak. I don't believe any society can stand on lies, even if the truth is sometimes hard to bear.”

“You sound like you have strong beliefs. I respect that. But can you really be that impartial? Can anyone?”

“Partisan politics are what tore our planet apart in the first place. Besides, the role of advocate is based on the principle that fair trials are not just the right of the innocent. Even if my client is clearly guilty, he still has the right to answer charges, and to be protected from mistreatment, and I will always defend that right.”

“What do you mean, mistreatment?”

For the first time since Archer had entered his office, Rasak seemed a little uncomfortable meeting his eye.

“Well, prosecutors aren't always as impartial as I am. Natural, in their positions. They might push for a confession, sometimes.”

“And how might they do that?”

“The law concerning the mistreatment of prisoners is strict.”

“But?”

“But... some agents have become adept at interrogation which follows the letter of the law, but not the spirit, if you see what I mean.”

“I'm not sure I do. Is my officer at risk of harm, Advocate?” Archer suddenly felt a little cold, remembering the way Malcolm’s eyes had flickered to the Niskaan guard before he’d answered their questions.

“They can't do him any physical harm.”

“Is that the letter of the law?”

“That is. I assure you, Captain, I will be monitoring Lieutenant Reed, speaking to him daily. If I suspect mistreatment, I will protest in the strongest possible terms.”

“Dammit, I don't want his mistreatment protested, I want assurances that it will not happen. We've been very respectful of your system here, your _procedures_ ,” Archer spat the word out. “We want a diplomatic solution, but Starfleet has limits to its toleration. My ship is in orbit around your planet now, and if we wanted to just take him back, we could do that, do you understand?”

“I appreciate that, Captain. This is beyond my power. Your diplomacy must be directed at Premier Gruun. Tell him what you will do. Threaten him with your weapons, if you like.” Something in the set of Rasak's face suggested he didn't think much of Archer's new stance.

Silence reigned between them for a moment. The time piece on Rasak's shelf whirred. It looked like an old fashioned device, and, with its noise foregrounded, Archer realised its relevance. The Niskaans were technologically quite advanced, but their prolonged conflict had sapped their strength and resources, left them impoverished, trying to reconstruct their society out of broken pieces. _Look at it from his point of view. He wants to do what's right, but he is a Niskaan. He looks at you, he sees an outsider questioning how he does his job, and trying to throw his weight around. You can't afford to alienate him if you want to help Malcolm._

“Advocate,” he began, into the gulf between them. “I recognise this must be a sensitive case for you. I apologise for my frustration. I'm concerned for my officer, and I want to get this sorted out.”

“Of course, Captain,” Rasak said. “I understand.” His words were conciliatory, but his tone was still formal. “Speak with Premier Gruun. I'll make your requests for visitation. We will meet again.”

Rasak stood to hold the door, and Archer, at a loss as to how to make further reparations, rose to leave. He felt wrong-footed again, frustrated at himself, knowing he wasn't handling this as well as he should be. Trying to be assertive on this damn planet only seemed to make things worse, but respectful social niceties were achieving nothing either – these Niskaans would nod and smile Malcolm all the way to an alien prison. He had stepped through the door, and was considering his next tactic, when Rasak spoke again behind him.

“Captain,” he said. “Look – I don't believe the Premier would care to risk a diplomatic incident with your people by allowing any mistreatment. We want to get to the bottom of this, but it's in no one's interests to convict an innocent man. I doubt, truly, you have cause for serious concern.”

“Thank you,” Archer said, and meant it. Rasak was not ready to be friends again, however. He simply nodded in response, unsmiling.

“Your lieutenant is lucky,” he said. “There are prisoners on Niskaa who don't have starships on their side.”

He shut the door.

* * *

Sleep still hadn't come, but as time wore on, Malcolm managed to find plenty of other small distractions to take his mind off its cinematic loop. He was fast coming to suspect that his incarceration had been designed with his maximum discomfort in mind. He wished he'd been able to express as much to Archer, except, guard aside, he hadn't been sure how to articulate it, painfully aware all his complaints would sound minor. Petty, even.

First, there were the lights, which hummed without respite, overly bright, and he’d been chained ever since his arrest so that he couldn’t even cover his face against them. This was proving a bigger psychological block than he ever could have imagined, being robbed of all ability to touch, itch, or gesture above chest height. Time and time again, he went to raise his hands without thinking and found himself stopped short. Emotional expressions left stunted. He had a deep-set ache starting in his shoulders too, and he found himself devoting slightly more time than was natural to fantasising about being able to stretch properly.

It was cold in his cell, too. Not cold enough to make his breath frost, or for him to shiver, but still, cold, and the shirt they’d given him was light, short-sleeved, and thanks to the shackles, he couldn’t properly curl up, or tuck his hands away – which, as a result, were perpetually white and numb beneath their slashes. It dulled the pain in them, at least, but removed all hope of anything approximating functioning fingers.

And then, though they fed him, it never seemed quite enough, or very wholesome, and so the hollow in his belly remained, and they gave him water, but in their own time, and the recycled air in the cell sucked him dry. And of course there was no toilet in here, and though they took him down the corridor at intervals, it was never quite often enough to keep himself comfortable.

And then, he hurt. He ached, in his belly, and his hands, and his head, and if what they were giving him really was painkillers, they didn’t seem to work, but only made his heart pound too fast, and his senses skitter, and added a constant, futile adrenaline buzz to his list of discomforts.

All things which, in isolation or short term, would be mere inconveniences, ignorable, but as the hours wore on, they were ganging up on him.

He might have minded everything less if only he could have escaped to sleep, but they wouldn’t let him. He was stuck in a wakeful, wired limbo, his adrenaline conspiring with the door-rattling guards, and the medics who disturbed him with their poking and their needles. He had no way to determine how much time was passing – another point which grated – but he suspected he hadn’t been allowed to sleep continuously for more than an hour or so since his arrest. That made it, by his calculations – growing soupier by the hour – about forty-eight hours since he’d last slept properly. He knew enough about the effects of sleep deprivation to know that if they didn’t give him a break soon, he’d be thoroughly fucked.

 _And that is the technical term_ , Malcolm thought, but he was rather past finding himself funny. His own company, for hours on end, was another thing he could have done without.

A break, of a kind, came some length of time he couldn't calculate after Archer's visit. A rattle at his door, and two guards were in the cell with him, pulling him to his feet. They were not unduly rough, but it stung anyway, and he made a few token shrugs before submitting to their hands on his shoulders as they lead him down the corridor, into yet another small, bright room.

Fiest was waiting for him there, at another low table, another low chair. Was this the same room he'd been in before, or a different one? He couldn't tell. He allowed himself to be shepherded to sit opposite Fiest. Folded his hands in his lap. One guard left; the other remained, taking his place like a statue in the corner of the room. Was he the same guy as before, too? Malcolm felt a wave of encroaching disorientation, and stamped down on it hard.

Fiest sat back in his chair, and regarded Malcolm evenly for almost a full minute before speaking. Malcolm, aware the intention was to intimidate him, looked blandly back. This would be easier if Fiest was going to play the bastard. It would give him something to brace himself against.

“Well,” Fiest said, eventually. Malcolm gave him a small, ironic smile, and Fiest smiled back without warmth, the effect like a snarl. “This has worked out well for you,” he said.

Malcolm glanced around himself, at the room, the guard, down at his own hands, still in chains.

“Yes,” he said. “It's all worked out wonderfully.”

Fiest chuckled, again without warmth; an assertion of his power.

“Of course, I'm referring to Eska, happening to die,” he said. “By accident, at your hands. Very convenient for you. You've told us your side of the story. We don't get to hear his.”

There was no question there, so Malcolm didn't answer.

“So, we have to accept, from you, that he would have told us nothing inconveniently contradictory. And we are left with this great gaping hole in events that you are unable to account for, being utterly a victim of circumstance.”

No question still. Malcolm, aware that lack of reaction would make him seem cold, shifted his weight, let himself swallow, blink. The falsely accused had a right to be nervous, after all.

“What do you say to that, Lieutenant?” Fiest pushed.

 _Don't be a smartarse. Guilty people are smartarses._

“I'm sorry I can't help you, Agent Fiest. I've told you everything I know.”

“Yes, so you say. But bear with me, if we review, one more time. You were walking back to the compound from your meeting, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't think to take security?”

“I am security.”

“Of course.” Another smile like a snarl. “Forgive me, Lieutenant, but that does seem a little careless.”

“I'm in no position to disagree with you there.”

“Well, we all make oversights. But perhaps you'd explain your reasoning? Alone, unarmed, in the dark, on an alien world? A man in your line of work, you must have considered that it might not be safe?”

“It's a quarter of a mile from the hall to the compound. Well lit. My team were still out in the field. I've met with no hostilities from the locals since I've been here. I've talked to your security forces, about their crime rates, their enforcement. They're good at their job. I was under the impression your streets are pretty safe since the ceasefire. So I took a calculated risk, for a short walk.”

“Fair to say you didn't calculate well?”

“Apparently not.”

“And you were attacked, from behind, by Armand Eska.”

“I was attacked, yes. I didn't know who it was until I was told after.” Malcolm couldn't keep the snip of impatience from his voice. They'd been over this and over this. Fiest was trying to push him to make a discrepancy. Buggered if he was going to give him one.

“It's interesting, how he attacked you, didn't you think?”

“Interesting wasn't my first thought, I have to say.”

“Of course not. But he came at you from behind. He hit you from behind, yes? And yet your knife wounds are all on the front of your body. He could have stabbed you before you even turned, had killing you been his only intention.”

 _Don't I know it._

“I can't comment on his intentions. I don't know his intentions.”

“He is armed with a knife, but he strikes you first with his hands. Gives you the opportunity to turn, and face him. To see his face. He sees your face.”

“As I said, it was dark.”

“But as you also said, this route is well lit. Why would he risk letting you see him, being able to identify him later?”

“Since he intended to kill me, I'd imagine he didn't envisage I would have a later.”

“Now you comment on his intentions?”

Malcolm didn't answer. Let his eyes flicker away from Fiest's face so the man wouldn't read his silence as a challenge. The falsely accused had a right to be uncertain too.

“Never mind. Let's press on. He throws you forward; you strike the wall. You rise, and turn to face him. Now you see he has a knife. He pushes you back against the wall, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Presses the knife to your face. Cuts you.”

“Yes.”

“And he says...?”

“Nothing. He said nothing.”

“Now, that is odd. Don't you think?”

“I suppose it is odd. But it is what happened.”

“What a waste of his energy. And what a risk to him. Don't you think? As a professional? He lets you turn to face him, wastes time cutting you in a way that's neither fatal nor incapacitating, handing you the opportunity to fight him back. And yet he says nothing, does nothing that accounts for this behaviour. No demand, no threat, no gloat. Nothing.”

“It was very fast. It happened very fast. Much faster than you can tell it. He threw me, I spun round, he had the knife at my face. I'd hit my head... perhaps he thought he'd already hurt me worse than he had.” It was Fiest who didn't answer now, but merely watched him, so Malcolm kept talking into the space between them. “He had the knife. He had the power. Perhaps he didn't expect me to be trained to fight. Whoever he mistook me for. Perhaps he overestimated himself.”

“Perhaps,” Fiest said, and then was silent again. Did he think he was protesting too much? Malcolm couldn't tell. He had to break eye contact again. Damn lights. His eyes were starting to water, and he couldn't wipe them with his hands chained down. He blinked extra hard instead.

“And then,” Fiest continued, suddenly, sitting forward abruptly as he spoke, as much an invasion of Malcolm's space as he could perform with the table between them. “And then, he follows this inexplicable behaviour by stabbing you in the stomach. Rather ineptly. Shallow, well wide of any kind of fatal mark.”

“I don't know about well wide. My ship's doctor said I was an inch away –”

“Yes, yes. I heard about his examination. But the fact remains, when he finally got his act together enough to stick a knife in you, he failed to even really hurt you.”

“I already told you. I was twisting away from him, I caught the knife in my hands, and I stopped it. He wasn't aiming for where he hit. He missed.”

“You didn't miss though.”

“I didn't aim. I just turned the blade.”

“And stabbed him.”

“He was leaning his weight into me, trying to stab me. When I turned the blade, his weight kept coming.”

“He stabbed himself, on you, then?”

“If you like. Look, Agent Fiest, I can only apologise for not being attacked by a more efficient killer, but what I'm telling you is the truth. I'm sorry if it doesn't measure up to your expectations, but I can't explain that. I've told you everything I know.” Malcolm had hoped to sound forceful, but his voice had a break in it. He had to shut his eyes for a moment, against the lights, against himself, against his pounding head, which was picking up rhythm. Let Fiest see. He had the right to feel like crap, too.

“Forgive me, Lieutenant. A few more questions. We're nearly done here.”

 _One of us is_ , Malcolm thought. He didn't open his eyes.

“It seems to me we face three possibilities. Firstly, that Eska knew you for who you are – Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, of Starfleet, who has been doing such good work for us in Parmaine, work that Eska objects to because he secretly opposes the peace he swore to uphold.”

 _Go to hell_ , Malcolm thought, trying to inject some fire into himself, but it sputtered out damp.

“Secondly, that Eska believed you were this off-worlder that he spoke to his brother of, a man he must have had some grudge against – and he attacked you, mistakenly.”

Malcolm opened his eyes, because he had to then. The view was no better. The lights. He wished he could will the bulbs above him into just exploding, plunge them all into sparks, and then to blessed darkness.

“Or thirdly, that Eska believed you were this off-worlder that he spoke to his brother of – correctly.”

“That's not true.”

“Which one isn't true?” Fiest already knew the answer; he was asking questions for the sake of questions now, a poke of his stick, no more.

“The last isn't true. I had never seen the man before in my life.”

“The others?”

“I don't know. I don't know why.”

“One word from Eska to yourself might have told us why.”

“Perhaps he didn't want to incriminate himself.”

“Perhaps indeed. But if, as you said earlier, he intended to kill you, this shouldn't have been a concern. He was confident enough to let you see his face, after all. And he certainly must have seen yours.”

Malcolm held his tongue. He knew he was rattled; it would be dangerous to argue now. He'd say something stupid, give Fiest something he could twist. Best say nothing at all.

“Unfortunate that we have no other witness to help us unravel these mysteries. Perhaps there is a simple explanation after all – but we may never know.”

Malcolm shook his head. He had nothing else in him.

“But of course,” Fiest continued. “If your story is missing something from your own point of view, some key to this mystery – well, as I said, it is convenient for you Eska doesn't survive to incriminate you. Most fortunate.”

Too much.

“I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't mean to. He attacked me, he –”

“Yes?”

“I didn't want to kill him.”

“But?”

“That's all. I didn't want to. I didn't mean to.”

Malcolm closed his eyes again, but it didn't stop him from feeling the weight of Fiest's gaze, scrutinising his face for clues. He kept as still as he could. Hidden. After a long pause, he heard Fiest say;

“Okay.”

This was not, it appeared, addressed to him, since it prompted hands to descend on his shoulders, and he was pulled once again to his feet. He opened his eyes. The world, the lights, hit him like he'd just woken up into it. Had he dropped off for a second there? Longer even? He had no time to think on it, propelled by insistent hands back down the corridor, and back into his cell.

There were brackets on the walls in here. Malcolm had noticed them before, had wondered if they were left from some fixed piece of furniture that had since been removed. His brig-designer's eye had designated them a careless oversight, a hanging hazard. He discovered their true purpose now.

The guard, keys rattling, released and removed the chain around his waist, unchained Malcolm’s wrists for a blessed moment, and then pushed him back against the wall. He twisted Malcolm's hands behind his back, snapped the cuffs back on, and then left without a backward glance, leaving Malcolm to discover, through a few short tugs, that the chain had been passed through a waist high bracket before being re-secured. He was stuck, standing, with his hands trapped behind him.

 _And you were whinging about not being able to scratch your nose._

These Niskaans certainly knew their business. The bracket jutted out, securing him firmly a few inches out from the wall, too far to be able to lean back comfortably. Malcolm shifted his legs instead, to distribute his weight as evenly as he could. Closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep standing up, like a horse. Could people do that? He rather suspected he was going to find out, whether he wanted to or not. He felt fuzzy, thick-tongued. Time seemed to be passing by without checking in.

His eyes were still shut when he heard the door click again. Didn't open them until he felt a firm hand on his chin. One of the medics. He blinked at her, feeling detached, outside himself, as he watched her rummage through her kit, and produce a needle.

“I really hope that's a sedative,” he said, or his tongue did. She looked at him a little oddly, but then, it had been an odd thing to say. She rolled up the short sleeve of his prison garb, exposing his arm. Dabbed at a spot with a bit of cotton wool that smelled like alcohol. He thought about raising a token objection, but since there was manifestly nothing he could do, there didn't seem much point. He was too tired anyway. He shut his eyes again. Felt a scratch, then the needle. Opened his eyes when he felt it pull out, not sure if she'd have anything else in store for him, but she was packing the syringe away, preparing to leave.

“If you fall asleep like that, you could dislocate your shoulders,” she told him, when she saw him watching her. He supposed he would, if he fell forward. Nice of her to warn him, really. Except it wasn't really a warning, was it. It was an explanation, for whatever she'd just stuck him with.

He felt weird now. Weirder. Something sweeping over him. His blood starting to race. The dull taste of objectless panic rising in his throat. He'd suspected before the analgesics they were giving him weren't just analgesics, but were sent to rob his sleep. Now, even with his eyes closed, everything around him still felt jarring, loud. He felt ready to fight, to run, to fly apart; he'd pace, if he could, or climb the walls. He heard the door click as the medic left him, leant his weight forward experimentally against his bonds, but he had little give, and the pressure on his twisted shoulders hurt like hell.

Okay. Okay. Malcolm tried to steel himself. Breathe. He was equal to this. Only standing to attention, at the end of the day. He shifted his feet, tapped a foot against the floor, found even that small movement caused his adrenaline to soar; he had to grit his teeth to hold himself still, not to start kicking, fighting, until it passed.

 _You're a mess,_ he told himself firmly. _It's only been two days, and already you're all done in. The captain'll get you out of here, soon, could be any time. And you'll feel like a right twat then._

* * *

The contrast between Rasak's cramped and overflowing office and Gruun's warm, airy rooms in Chibnia couldn't have been more marked. Archer found himself waiting in a wide and tastefully decorated entrance hall, pacing the length of it, examining exotic pot plants, and a couple of pieces of sculpture he couldn't make head nor tail of. _Politics obviously pays on this planet. Shame some of that can't be channelled into fixing the roads, or putting some of those roofs back on. Or even giving your hard working advocates some better help._ This environment only warmed him further to Rasak, despite their earlier headbutt. By comparison, Gruun seemed all clean surface, and even more like a man who’d never done an honest day's work in his life.

This impression stuck even more so when Archer was invited into Gruun's office. His desk was pristine, clear, and about the size of a small sports field. Archer had to fight the urge to raise his voice pointedly, as though to make himself heard across it.

“Premier,” he said. Determined and firm.

“Captain.” The Premier eyed him with some suspicion as he took his seat, but his tone smacked of practised courtesy.

“I apologise,” Archer began, “if we misunderstood each other earlier. I'm hoping we can resolve this now.”

“Your apology is accepted, Captain, and appreciated.” Gruun’s reply was polished. “But the issue of Eska's death can now only be resolved in court.”

“I understand this is a very sensitive case for you on Niskaa, and if you'll recall, I promised you our full cooperation. I stand by that.” Archer had practised this while pacing. “But I feel that you haven't played straight with us, and this concerns me.”

“I’m sorry that you feel that way, Captain. But I’m afraid to say I have found your attitude aggressive. This does not speak well to me of your species, or for our future relations with your Starfleet.”

Archer’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “If we're talking about attitudes here, Premier, I haven't exactly been bowled over by yours. You've kept me in the dark, you've misled me, and now you're detaining my officer in an alien prison for a crime he didn't commit.” He tried to keep level, but he couldn’t help biting off those last few words. Gruun seemed to swell a little in his seat.

“What's alien to you is simply our procedure. I'm afraid I detect a hint of xenophobia in your tone. We are not savages on Niskaa; our justice system is modern, well-regulated, our prisons are humane. We don't advocate cruel punishment. We don't practise the death penalty. None of the conditions under which Starfleet won't pursue diplomacy are applicable to us.”

 _Okay_... Archer was thrown for a moment. Gruun seemed very savvy about Starfleet policy all of a sudden.

“We have not, as you say, detained your officer for a crime he didn't commit – Eska is dead at his hands, by his own admission.” Gruun had a way of speaking that made him sound both pointed and flustered both at once. “It is regrettable, deeply so, Captain, and I would not have had this happen, but this act of violence occurred, and we are entitled to investigate why. And your Starfleet Command agrees with me. ”

 _Ah._ “Do they?”

“Believe me, Captain, I'm as keen to avoid conflict between our peoples as you are. I felt perhaps our, um, clash of personalities might not be conducive to a solution, so I took the liberty of taking my diplomacy to a higher level. I spoke to your Admiral McCormick, after the hearing this morning.”

 _Which would explain why you were suddenly so keen to ship us off to see Malcolm. We get your concessions when it suits you to get rid of us._

“I see. Well, I have a few things of my own I'd like to say to the admiral.”

“Of course. As it happens, I have a direct line from my office here. Perhaps we could speak to him together?” He was flicking a switch on his desk as he spoke, without waiting for a reply. Archer ground his teeth as McCormick's image appeared on screen. Gruun was out-politicking him.

“Admiral,” he said, after an effort to loosen his clenched jaw. “I take it you're aware of our situation here.”

“Captain. Premier. Yes, I'm aware. How is Lieutenant Reed?”

He had the right priority, at least.

“Exhausted,” Archer said. “Injured. Concussed.”

“The lieutenant was injured in the altercation,” Gruun put in smoothly. “He's been attended to. Captain Archer has just visited with his own doctor, who I'm sure has confirmed our medic's findings.”

“Jon?”

“We weren't allowed to bring medical equipment into the facility. Doctor Phlox was only able to make a visual examination.”

“And his findings?”

“He...” _Dammit._ “He said that the Niskaan medical report appeared largely accurate. We have concerns about the drugs Malcolm's been given. Doctor Phlox is waiting to speak in more detail to the medic there now.”

“I'm sure he will get the answers he seeks.” Gruun's smile was the very picture of affability. McCormick nodded.

“Admiral,” Archer put in. “I don't know how much the Premier has told you, but it appears this man who attacked Malcolm was a key figure in the ceasefire here.”

“Yes, I’m aware. The Premier explained the situation to me in some detail.”

“I see. It's a shame he didn't grant me the same courtesy. I've had to find out everything I know from other sources. I wasn't even told about the attack until twenty-four hours after it happened.”

Gruun spoke up.

“Some fault must lie with me here, Admiral. Events, communication outages, prevented me from reporting the situation sooner. I spoke to Captain Archer as soon as I was able. As for the rest... well, I must confess I have found Captain Archer's attitude to be somewhat belligerent. I am very conscious that we have an armed starship in our orbit now. Perhaps this drove me to be a little selective with my information. I regret this now.”

“We've made no threats to you!” Archer cut in, indignant. “We're only here in your orbit to assist your people. Admiral, I have bent over backwards to be respectful here, but when I'm being cut out of the loop on my officer's welfare – ”

“Okay, okay.” McCormick cut across him. “Captain. Premier. It seems we've got off on the wrong foot on both sides here.”

“I quite agree,” Gruun put in, sounding as snappy as Archer had ever heard him. “Our government is new, our society rebuilding; it is most disrespectful for more established cultures to try to ride roughshod over us...”

“Premier,” McCormick's voice was firm. “I'm sure no disrespect was intended. You must understand too, we take this situation very seriously indeed. We want answers as much as you do. I'm sure this can be dealt with diplomatically.”

Archer sat back in frustration. Diplomacy meant compromise, and he sensed more time for Malcolm in detention was going to be the trade-off. Archer didn't doubt McCormick's intentions, but the admiral didn't know Malcolm, couldn't feel how much it grated personally to leave him behind there.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Gruun was saying. “As I have tried to explain to Captain Archer, we only want to determine the truth. If your officer is innocent of wrong-doing, there is no question he will be acquitted. And should, uh, anything untoward be revealed in the course of our process, we'll be prepared to negotiate our response. Extradition, perhaps.”

“Jon?”

Archer sat forward again. “You want me to agree to that? Admiral, I'm sorry, but I don't trust this man not to double-deal us. I'm not happy leaving my officer in his hands.”

“And may I ask what evidence you have that I will double-deal?” Gruun demanded. “I have admitted that I have been at fault in this, but still you seem determined to believe the worst of our people.”

“Captain Archer?” McCormick said. A note of warning in his tone. “Your loyalty to your man is understandable. But if the Premier gives us this reassurance, do you have any reason to disbelieve him?”

Archer regarded Gruun with dislike. He had an answer for everything, already prepared. Everything that Archer could talk about, anyway. He wondered, suddenly, how the admiral would respond if he held up three fingers and one finger behind Gruun's back. Did McCormick know about the Section? They must be known, condoned, on some higher level, or they couldn’t survive. Archer had a sense then of the enemy at hand, not just here on Niskaa, but his own people too. Hell, no one was beyond suspicion. A few months ago, he wouldn't have believed it of anyone on his crew, but then there was Malcolm…

“I want to be able to see my officer, regularly. Daily. I want to be able to speak to him, alone. If I suspect for a second that he's not being well treated – ”

“And there is that belligerence again. Admiral, I am quite prepared to grant Captain Archer access. He has already seen his officer today, without opposition. Perhaps... I feel I am done for the day, I have spent time enough. I'd like to request the Captain return to his vessel, his doctor too. I will make time to speak to you tomorrow regarding visitation.” Gruun's attitude was suddenly affronted, quite overcome, but Archer didn't buy it for a moment.

“I think you've stalled me quite enough already. Admiral – ”

“Jon. That's enough. Thank you. Premier, will you give us your word that if the captain leaves now, you'll grant him the access he wants? Daily visits?”

“Yes, yes. Completely unnecessary to make an issue of this...”

“That sounds like a compromise to me. Captain?” An edge in McCormick’s tone now. He wasn't asking. Archer had run out of loopholes. He bumped his fist against the desk in frustration, but nodded his head. Clearly, he was going to have to find his help, or his answers, somewhere else. He had to know what the Section was up to. Had to find some way to get hold of Harris. Harris was a snake in the grass, but at least he was a self-confessed snake.

The admiral nodded. “Good,” he said. “I'm sure we can resolve this to mutual satisfaction, gentlemen. Jon, keep me updated as to how Lieutenant Reed is doing. Premier, thank you for your time. And I'd like to apologise on behalf of Starfleet for any offence you feel has been caused. We all want a positive future for Niskaa here.”

“No need,” Gruun smiled, slickly. “Captain Archer has already apologised to me, and I have accepted.”

 _Oh, and I walked right into that one. He's made it sound like I came in here crawling. Made me sound guilty as sin._

Gruun didn't have the front to speak platitudes, at least, when the screen flicked off. He simply gestured to the door.

* * *

Malcolm marked the time, at first, by listening to his heartbeat, racing loud in his ears. Counted beats, blocks of one hundred, then started again. He'd lost count of how many hundreds before it occurred to him that his heart was on a timer, and he was listening to blood – filleting fish again – and then he couldn’t make himself ignore it.

By that time, his legs were threatening to cramp, so he occupied himself shifting his weight from foot to foot, counting twenty this time, carefully, between each shift, making himself mark seconds, not heartbeats. When that stopped helping, he started lifting each foot right up off the floor, stretching it, shaking it to get the kinks out, counting to twenty, then change.

At some point, the medic came back with a glass of water for him. Malcolm received it gratefully, his throat dry as a bone. She had to hold it up to his lips and tip it for him, and between them they managed to get a good portion down his front and not a little into his lungs. This made him cough so hard it left his throat feeling worse. It would just about put a cap on things, he thought, if he managed to drown himself now, in a cup of water, miles from any ocean.

It was hard to cough in a satisfying way standing upright, and the challenge of doing so kept his mind off his other aches for a little while. But then the cramps started setting in for real, shooting pains in his legs, his back, his neck, his shoulders. His twenties started to trail off. He kept on losing count.

He had to stop standing on one leg when the shakes got too bad.

He wasn't sleeping, but time was starting to play tricks on him, his consciousness spluttering. He kept losing track of which room he was in. Lights in his eyes. The streetlights in Chibnia. Eska's bright, bloodshot eyes. Brickwork at his back, and breath on his face. He turned his face away sharply from what he imagined was in front of it. Told himself no.

Had to keep it together. Get something else on his mind. Solve a problem in his head; he was good at that, did some of his best work before he ever even got his hands dirty. He ignored, firmly, the impression that he wasn't alone, ignored his legs, his back, his head, the line of cold steel at his cheek, the fresh night air, ignored Eska's voice, hissing in his ear, _it is you… I thought it was…_

Ignored it all, and in his mind, he disarmed a thermite-acetone bomb attached to the underside of a public transport vehicle, and saved eleven civilian lives.


	3. Chapter 3

Archer found himself back on Enterprise that evening with a handful of dead ends, and his armoury officer still planetside. Phlox had met with the medic at the jail, who had let him examine the medication Malcolm had been given, and he had confirmed it was indeed simply an antibiotic and an analgesic, of a suitable human dosage, as described on the medical report. Archer had been slightly heartened, until Phlox had added, rather too chirpily, “Of course, that's what I was shown, anyway. Without having been able to scan the lieutenant, it's impossible to say what's actually in his bloodstream.”

At least, Archer thought, back on Enterprise, he actually got to be the one in charge. He felt like he'd lost all his footing, and was starting again from scratch.

 _Right. Harris. If he has a hand in this, where will I find it?_ But Archer had no idea how to look for traces of the Section, or how to locate Harris himself, especially without knowing what Malcolm himself knew. _Had he known – ?_ But no, Archer dismissed the thought. Malcolm had made his choice, and made it plain. If he'd known anything about any Section interest before he went down to Niskaa, he would have told Archer, Archer was certain of it. Same if Harris had been in touch with him, for any reason, since Terra Prime.

But still -

It was a place to start, nothing more, he told himself, as he let himself into Malcolm's quarters. Settled himself at Malcolm's desk, flicked on his desk light. He found nothing out of the ordinary on Malcolm's personal computer. Routine work, mostly, some rough notes on an upgrade proposal for the torpedoes, a few recently watched movies, some music files. Malcolm's logs showed his last personal call had been made to his sister back on Earth, but it was dated over three months ago. Nothing more received or sent since. No sign of Harris, or of tampering, as far as Archer could tell.

At a loss, not wanting to leave without gaining some kind of insight, Archer made a slightly guilty inventory of the rest of the room. It didn't take very long. There was little to show Malcolm had even been living here for four years. His only particular hobby seemed to be reading; he owned a shelf of paper books, which Archer ran his eye along – Joseph Conrad, John Le Carré, the works of Homer, _Casino Royale_. A few other more popular titles. Some hefty looking history tomes. Archer lifted a couple at random from the shelf and flicked through, but they told him nothing, and he quickly replaced them.

There were a few documents and pictures tacked above Malcolm's desk too – a copy of the armoury duty roster, a to-do list with every item on it already neatly crossed through, a postcard with a picture of ships, labelled _Royal Navy Dockyard, Devonport._ Archer plucked this off the wall and turned it over, but apparently Malcolm had chosen it just for the image, since there was nothing written on the back except a line of small print about the historic docks. _Plymouth, Devon,_ Archer read. Was that Malcolm's home town? If Archer had ever known, he couldn't remember. Getting personal details out of Malcolm was like trying to wring blood from a stone at the best of times.

A chirrup at the door shook him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he said, a little self-consciously. The door slid open to reveal Trip leaning on the frame, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Hey,” Archer said.

“I saw the door was unlocked.” Trip stepped in. “Are you snooping?”

“I am snooping,” Archer agreed. “Because nobody else seems to be able to give me any answers.”

“Malcolm won't be too happy, you going through his personal stuff.”

“He hardly has any personal stuff to go through. Is this where he grew up?” Archer handed the postcard to Trip, who peered at it.

“Dunno,” he said, and handed it back. Archer felt slightly vindicated. Trip settled himself on the edge of Malcolm's neatly made bunk and looked Archer in the eye.

“So,” he said. “Why the hell isn't he back here yet?”

“Politics,” Archer said. Trip gave him an incredulous look, and Archer added, “Oh come on, Trip. You know as well as I do why we can't just go in there guns blazing.”

“Yeah. They've got the guy who works our guns.”

Archer shook his head. “This is a mess,” he acknowledged. He settled himself on the bunk next to Trip. He needed to share what he knew with someone he could trust, and better that person be someone Malcolm trusted too. Besides, he felt a need, an urge, to connect with his armoury officer personally, a hunch that such insight might bring him some answers, and Trip was going to be as good a guide to Malcolm's insights as anyone on board.

“Remember Qu'vat Colony?” Archer said. “That time we transferred you from Columbia at Warp 5? You asked me what was going on with Malcolm then. What do you know about that?”

“Uh. Rumour and speculation, mostly. Hell, everyone knows something went down between you guys. This is a starship. You can't throw your tactical officer in the brig without people noticing.”

“Did Malcolm tell you anything about it?”

“That you'd had a misunderstanding,” Trip smiled at the memory. “And later, that he was acting on orders. He wasn't specific, but I got the impression someone higher up was trying to cut you out the loop, and Malcolm got caught in the middle.”

“I guess you could put it that way. Look, Trip, this is confidential, understand?”

“Sure, Captain.”

Archer told him, as much as he could. Everything he knew about the Section, Malcolm's involvement, what had been said in court, and out of it, and Malcolm's final act of finger puppet theatre. When he was done, silence reigned between them for a moment. Then Trip whistled low.

“Damn,” he said. “He's a dark horse. Trust Malcolm.” He looked sideways at Archer. “This... Harris? Helped us out at Terra Prime?”

“Yeah.”

Trip was silent a moment longer. Archer let him be, let him gather himself in his own time. The room around them was close, low-lit, the shapes of the books on the shelf casting shadows on the wall. It looked more lived in from this angle, or maybe it was just the company that made it feel like that.

“So you think this Section is involved in this business? “ Trip said, eventually. “No chance Malcolm was trying to tell you the soccer score or anything?”

Archer snorted. “I doubt it.”

Trip cast his own gaze around the room.

“No wonder he has kind of an instinct for secrecy,” he said. “He must have been involved with a lot of stuff he can't talk about, classified stuff. That can't be easy on him.”

“Yeah. But it goes deeper than that, doesn't it? I mean, I've come to terms with the fact Malcolm and I are never going to be close personal friends. It's enough we trust each other professionally. But you're the best friend he has on board, the best friend he _has_ , as far as I know, and you don't even know where he grew up. That isn't classified.”

“Look, he doesn't really talk a lot about being a kid, and you know what? If I hassled him about stuff like that, I wouldn't be his friend. He's a private person. He's got a right to that.”

“Sure. But then he goes and gets himself in messes, and I don't know if he knows how to ask for help.” Archer heaved out a sigh. “And I really don't know how to get him out of this one.”

“Hey, it's not that bad, is it? You said they've got no evidence they can convict him with. And they're not going to, because there isn't any, right?”

“That's the thing, Trip. I don't know. I don't know who's behind this, what's going on behind the scenes. But if I know anything about this Section, I do know that if they have some stake in this, they'll have something else up their sleeves.”

“You have to talk to Malcolm.”

“Damn straight I do. But I've blotted my copybook with the Niskaans, and they've gone above my head. And... I don't know, Trip. I think Malcolm's being set up, but I don't know why. But the thing is, he does know _something_ , and that means maybe he isn't telling the whole truth in court, which means the Niskaans are right, on that score at least. To be honest, I'm not really sure what to believe any more.”

“Hey. Hey, don't let these goddamn Niskaans mess with your mind. It would suit them down to the ground to drive a wedge between you and Malcolm. He wouldn't do... anything like that. I might not know all his vital stats, but I do know that about him. And you know that too.”

Archer shook his head in frustration. Let himself voice thoughts he hadn't articulated even to himself until now. “I thought I knew him once before, too. And without knowing what he's trying to tell me... Trip, a year ago, I never would have believed he could be lying to that court, but knowing what I know now... I don't know what he used to for Harris. I have no idea, when it comes down to it, what he's been involved in.”

“But you do know that he wants to let you in on this. And you know he can't just stand up in a Niskaan court and explain how a Starfleet covert organisation is involved in this mess. That would amount to treason – and it would hardly warm the Niskaans to him any. If anything, they'd think it confirmed their worst fears.”

“You're right. But that means all they have to get is a sniff of the truth, his background, and they might think they have some grounds to convict him, and he won't even be able to defend himself because he can't mention the Section. He's caught between a rock and a hard place, whatever the truth is.”

“Maybe it won't come to that,” Trip said, but if he was trying to sound hopeful, it fell flat.

“I hope not.” Archer sighed. “We're agreed on one thing at least, we need to get him out of there.”

Trip didn't answer straight away, but spent a moment frowning thoughtfully at empty air. “Sure,” he said, after a time. “But hey – if you can't get to Malcolm for the real story, why aren't you trying to contact this Harris guy?”

“I don't know how to. He's not exactly in the book. When I spoke to him before, it was Malcolm who made the initial contact.”

Trip drummed his fingers on his knee.

“If we can find that point in Malcolm's logs... I guess being all covert, they use encrypted frequencies, and clear their contact logs after, but the last time Malcolm contacted Harris was on your orders, right? So there'd be no particular reason for him to cover his tracks that carefully from this end.”

“No. But I already checked the date I know he contacted Harris last. His log has been erased.”

“Right. But erased data can be recovered. You'd have to perform a partial system purge to get rid of all traces, and then backtrack and cover the fact you even purged, so it doesn't look like it's been tampered with. I guess Mr Covert Agent knows how to do that...” Trip grinned wryly. “But if Malcolm wasn't being that careful, maybe there's something we can recover.”

“You think that might work?”

“We can try,” Trip gave a little half shrug, but his eyes were bright with possibility. “Though we're going to need Hoshi on this one. Even if we can recover a trace of the frequency, it's going to be encrypted.”

Archer nodded. “Get on it. And get Hoshi involved when you need her. But listen – this has to stay under wraps. Don't involve anyone else, and make sure Hoshi knows to keep it to herself too.”

“You're getting the hang of this covert stuff,” Trip grinned at him. “Hey, when we get hold of this Harris, maybe he'll be offering you a job.”

“If he does, he can stick it,” Archer said, and Trip left Malcolm's quarters laughing.

Archer stayed a moment, still holding Malcolm's postcard in his hand, picture-side up. Grey ships, green sea. He thought it odd that Malcolm would display a memento of the life that he'd rejected; fought hard to reject, from what Archer could piece together from the little he knew of Malcolm and his father. But then, Malcolm was a man who carried a lot of contradictions. Or perhaps Archer was reading too much into it. Perhaps Malcolm just thought it was a pretty picture.

Archer stood to reattach the card to the wall, and tried to make himself feel a bit hopeful. It was an uphill battle. He'd always found Trip's can-do attitude infectious before, but his misgivings were too heavy to shake. Trip and Malcolm's friendship must be a thing of contradictions in its own way, he thought, close but without confidences, and Trip sticking up for Malcolm still, barely even phased by finding out he'd been lied to by omission too for years now. But then that was so like Trip, to the point of blindspot, always wanting to think the best of the people he cared about.

Maybe that was why Malcolm had chosen his friendship.

* * *

Malcolm's first few weeks on Niskaa had been spent in the rural regions of northern Parmaine. A great road swept through these farming communities; a major route to the city of Chibnia, crucial to trade and troop movements, and this had become a target for the terrorist cells planting booby-trapped bombs. The road itself was too well used for any undetonated devices to still remain, but the surrounding farmland was littered with traps for the unwary. Shortcuts, strolls, even stepping off the road for a piss was taking your life into your hands. Fields which should be yielding crops, feeding herds, lay unused. These regions had been economically, as well as psychologically, crippled.

Malcolm's team had been accompanied in their work by a small detail of Niskaan peacekeeping troops, soldiers, good men and women, mostly local to the region. One of them had an artificial foot; another had burns on his face from a road side bomb. Another had one staring, unseeing eye from flying shrapnel. There were children in the villages missing limbs. Missing siblings. Missing parents. Niskaans cut fresh boughs from leafy trees and used them to weave intricate structures like cairns over the graves, and these lay clustered on the outskirts of the settlements, like shy ghosts. The scars on the people and the land jarred with the normality of the lives they led. The soldiers still joked. The children still laughed.

And, the green and the sharp tang of wet vegetation reminded Malcolm of England. Some of his crew had grumbled about working in the rain; to him, it felt like the real outdoors. He wouldn't swap Enterprise now for any posting in Starfleet, but he did miss real solitude. Starships never slept; there was nowhere, outside his own small quarters, he could go and feel really alone.

The Niskaans had constructed boardwalks over the land, marking safe trails, and sometimes, in the evenings, he would step out on his own, stand right on the edge of the raised walk and look out over the fields. It was like standing on the boundary between land and ocean, watching the waving grass, listening to the wind whisper.

He thought sometimes about stepping off. Dared himself. Measured the odds. One step, two steps. How far could he go, on the way to anywhere, before the ground detonated beneath him? All the way, if he was lucky. Or some of the way. It was the getting there that counted; what came after, incidental. A whole new life, if he lived to see it. And if not, dying trying.

But he never did. He knew his job; had seen, first hand, the cost of carelessness. He had his duty to Enterprise too, above all else; his life not his own to gamble as he chose – and a standard to set, so that others wouldn't think they could do what he did without paying the price for it. And he didn't have a deathwish, not really, didn't want it to be _now._ But still. The idea was intoxicating. It made him feel perfectly alive; at peace with his own fate, when he held it in his hands.

It was this Eska had robbed from him in those frantic, stabbing, scrabbling seconds. This that Eska had stolen from others, only going about their day.

The Niskaan commitment to reconciliation had fascinated him. Old enemies now neighbours on the land, and in the cities, in the parliaments. All talk of hatred, blame, stripped from their speech. No old hurt ever acknowledged without the qualification that their own side too had taken lives. Malcolm had wondered how much of that was really real, and how much just political correctness. How could they not be angry? How could they not hate? Or perhaps they'd come to the edge of their own boardwalk too, stared out across a field of life and death, and found it all to be inconsequential.

They let him down before he fell down, in the end, but not very long before. Dumped him on the bed, cuffed his hands around the leg, and left him to it. He slept where he was put, on his front, his face pressed against his arms. When the door rattlers came he didn't know how long later, he woke to find his legs and back and shoulders were a fiery, mangled mess of aches and strains.

He tried to sit up when the guard entered, but, still cuffed to the bed, all he managed to do was slide off and end up on his knees on the floor. He turned his face away as the guard bent over him, acutely aware of his own vulnerability, but the guard only unlocked one of the cuffs on his wrist, unlooped the chain from around the leg of the bed, and re-cuffed him, hands back in front of him – but blessedly, attached to nothing. As the guard left, Malcolm pushed himself back onto the bed and sat there. His muscles ached like he'd been beaten.

Malcolm raised his hands in front of his face and examined them. They looked like they'd been taken apart and stitched back together ineptly, like in one of Trip’s old monster movies. He tried to bend his fingers experimentally, but had even less luck than before; they were stiff now, swollen, and numb. And he was still thinking through soup. How long had he slept? An hour or so, maybe? He brought both hands up to cover his mouth as he yawned. Luxury.

He didn't have long to enjoy it, though, before the door rattled again, and this time it was Fiest who came in, a file in his hand. Malcolm's insides curled in on themselves. He couldn't face another session. Couldn't keep the truth in the right order right now, let alone the rest of it.

“What now?” he said.

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant?”

Malcolm's eyes focused properly, and he saw it was not Fiest, after all, but Advocate Rasak.

“Oh. Sorry. Thought you were someone else.” He closed his eyes as he spoke, grimaced to himself with embarrassment. Heard Rasak say, “May I sit?”

“Please,” Malcolm said, with a short, humourless snort at the incongruity of the courtesy. The bedsprings creaked as the advocate took a seat beside him, a careful distance away.

“How are you?” Rasak asked. Malcolm opened his eyes again, and scrutinised his face for any hint of sarcasm. Could find none, but remained suspicious. He knew Rasak's job description, but not his alliances.

“Been better,” he said, shortly. Rasak continued to peer at him curiously.

“You look unwell,” he said. “Have you had medical attention?”

“Plenty.”

If Rasak picked up on the irony in Malcolm’s tone, he didn't show it. He simply nodded, and started rifling through his file. Malcolm watched him leafing, his overtaxed brain throwing details into sharp relief. The advocate had quick, nimble fingers. Rough pads on the tips. Rougher than a lawyer's should be. A thought occurred to him.

“When is it?” he asked Rasak.

“I'm sorry?”

“What day is it? In court – was that today? Yesterday?”

“That was yesterday, Lieutenant. It's the morning now.”

“Oh.” Stupid question really. “No clock in here,” he explained. Stupid explanation. He scratched the bridge of his nose, because he could. The movement made his fingers ache to the bone.

“I'm trying to move the Premier to set you a court date as soon as possible,” Rasak told him. “I get the impression he's keen to have this resolved. Agent Fiest is requesting more time to investigate, however.”

 _I bet he is,_ Malcolm thought, but said nothing. He wasn't sure if he liked the sound of soon or not. On one hand, it would at least mean an end to this bright humming heart-pounding limbo, but on the other, he had no idea what might lie beyond.

“I spoke with your captain yesterday,” Rasak continued. “He's very insistent of your innocence. He obviously thinks a great deal of you.”

That made Malcolm blink. Feel unexpectedly choked. “Does he?” he said. “That's...” His voice trailed off. _Oh god._ He was hit with such an urge to be back home on Enterprise, back before this had been done. It was so overwhelming, and so pathetic, it made him want to pinch himself.

“He's petitioning the Premier for visitation rights. But in the meantime, if you have anything you wish me to pass onto him, any message, I can do that for you.”

“You can?” _Captain, about that great deal that you apparently think of me..._

“Yes. Of course, if you tell me anything, uh, relevant, I am required to disclose it to the court. But if you have a more personal message...”

“Ah,” Malcolm said. He tried to think if there was any way he could frame something meaningful that would sound innocuous to Rasak. His brain wouldn't work. _Forget what I told you yesterday?_ As if Archer would. “No, there isn't anything.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything you're unhappy about here?”

Malcolm wanted to laugh out loud at that, but the muscles in his back rebelled at the thought.

“Well, if Agent Fiest would stop asking me so many questions...” he said.

Rasak gave him a rueful smile. “That is his right, I'm afraid. I appreciate it must be trying for you, but if you answer as honestly as you can, you'll be helping each other. Is there anything else?”

 _Helping each other._ Suddenly, Malcolm had had it up to his eyeballs with Niskaan courtesy. _Please, Lieutenant, if you would, Lieutenant, if I may, Lieutenant,_ and all the while stringing him up to hang. He didn't doubt, suddenly, that Niskaans could talk reconciliation in the streets and still harbour hate in their hearts.

“I wish they'd turn the bloody lights off,” he said.

“Bloody?”

“Never mind.” Ouch. It did hurt to laugh. He should say something, really. About the rest of it. If Rasak really gave a damn. But suddenly it seemed absurd to try and spotlight his own suffering against this smouldering backdrop. _God knows no one else on this planet is getting what they actually deserve._ And besides, the spotlight was exactly what he didn't want. Just had to keep his head down, push on through. Trust... well, trust that it would be over, one way or another, sooner or later. Best not to draw more attention. Not to worry Archer, who right now thought as much of him as he was ever going to think of him.

Malcolm found he was shaking his head at nothing, but fortunately Rasak wasn't looking at him.

“Well,” he was saying, as he sorted his papers. “If that's it, you must excuse me. I have another client in court this morning.” Malcolm watched him prepare to leave, feeling outside himself again. The way Rasak spoke had a familiar cadence; it had been tugging on him, and now it fell into place.

“You're not from Chibnia, are you?” Malcolm asked him. “Further north?”

“Yes. I grew up on a farm in Brehvvin, in northern Parmaine. I came to Chibnia to study law.” He was one of those children, then. Grinning, with muddy knees. Or one muddy knee and a home-made crutch.

“I was there. Not long ago.”

“I know.”

Malcolm wanted to say more. Say something real, something about those humped ghost graves, the laughing children, the whispering grass. Couldn't think how to articulate it, without making it sound empty.

“I'm sorry,” he said, instead. Emptier.

“What for?”

“All the... troubles you've had here. It's a beautiful planet. Well, the parts I've seen.” He looked around himself, at the bright, humming room. “Apart from this bit,” he added. Rasak smiled, but only politely. Malcolm didn't blame him. _Beautiful_ wasn't real. It meant nothing, was incidental, especially coming from an outsider. The _sorry_ wasn't real, either. Just something people said. Rasak couldn't know how much he really meant it. The advocate was standing now, all platitudes already put from his mind.

“It's looking hopeful for you,” he told Malcolm. “All the evidence thus far appears to be circumstantial. You have a good chance of acquittal, if you were telling the truth yesterday.”

Malcolm leaned his head back against the wall. Brought his hands up to shade his eyes from the lights. Wanted to bark with laughter.

“Don't you start,” he said, instead.

Rasak gave him a slightly odd look as he turned to go.

“It's my job to make sure the truth is known,” he said.

 _Oh, brilliant. Well, good luck with that._

* * *

Malcolm tried to take advantage of his relative liberty to do some stretches, work the pains out of his protesting muscles, but he quickly lost motivation and just sat, aching, his forehead rested on the backs of his hands. He tried to make his own passivity bother him. Supposed it was the point of what they were doing to him. Hoped as long as he knew that, it wouldn't work.

They came again; two guards and the medic again, this time. He had no room to struggle. They were on him, hauling him to his feet, almost before he had a chance to register their entrance. Great, meaty hands around his forearms. They were consummate professionals, these guards, not unnecessarily rough but still, they made no bones of the fact he was going where they put him. They didn't speak to him as they pushed him back against the wall, or even look at him, particularly. He was just another part of their working day. They pinned him between them, and, if he tried to fight when he saw the needle, their combined weight pressing on him absorbed it without much effort.

The drugs, when they took hold, brought everything in the room into panic-charged focus; everything too bright, too close, too loud, too dangerous to bear, but Malcolm had to stand while the medic checked his hands with the help of a guard clamped on each wrist. She glanced at the cut on his face, too, and lifted his shirt to look at the wound in his side. He kicked out when she touched him there, not even meaning to, but the air on his bare skin was a sensation too far. One of the guards brought a forearm up underneath Malcolm’s chin and pressed against his windpipe until he had to keep still just to breathe.

When the medic nodded at them and turned away, they wrenched his arms up above his head, looped the chain around a high bracket, and left him without a backward glance.

 _Okay. Okay. Bright sides._ He could lean against the wall this time, at least. Had more room to wriggle without hurting himself than when his hands had been behind his back. Could even press his face against an upraised arm; some relief from the lights. _Easy. This'll be easy. Well. Easier._

Except thinking of bright sides made him think of Trip, and that twisted his guts up in a knot. The pains in his arms and his shoulders came on fast, spreading down his back, into his lumbar muscles, his legs; consuming him piece by piece. His hands started shaking in their chains. It was cold, still, but before long sweat was standing on his forehead from the strain. A bead of it trickled down beside his nose, stinging the cut on his cheek. Itching like fire. He jerked the chains above his head involuntarily. Kicked at the wall behind him. Nothing helped. His adrenaline was punching him in the stomach repeatedly. Time hummed by, the lights like a living thing in the room with him.

Reality started to pass out around him. One moment he was trapped in the room; the next wind whispered in his ears and the lights were bleaching out the Niskaan night, and it wasn't sweat stinging his eyes, but blood. Once, he came back to himself with the odd feeling he'd been talking, muttering, but hadn't noticed until he stopped. He very much hoped not. He did sleeptalk sometimes, he knew. Awful habit. Trip had told him, that time on the shuttlepod. Teased him afterwards; told Malcolm he was such a worrier, he even worried in his sleep (“You do! I've heard you!” to his protests).

But what he was doing didn't feel like sleeping. He was still here; it was everything else that kept on sliding away. The murmur of the wind became the crashing of a sea, became the slam of a body against concrete, the smack of a fist against flesh, the ticking of a timer –

Until, finally, the door clicked, and the room was crowding round him once again. Fiest entered, his lilac eyes on Malcolm like a stalking wolf. No amount of blinking would make him resolve into someone else this time. Malcolm found he was leaning too much weight into his chains. With an effort, he compelled his legs to start taking some of the strain again.

“We're going to make some progress today,” Fiest told him. His tone was upbeat. It was jarring. He settled himself on the bunk, and regarded Malcolm with bright-eyed interest for a moment.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Malcolm swore at him, a string of twisted curses, but Fiest only laughed.

“Now, now,” he said. “Let's be constructive. Is there anything you'd like to tell me now, before we start? Save us both a bit of time and effort?”

“No,” Malcolm said. He had to force the word out past the pressure his position put on his chest, and his thickened tongue.

“Shame,” Fiest said. He leant back against the wall, making himself pointedly comfortable. “So I took a stroll to the scene of your crime yesterday evening. Thought I'd check it out. You see, your story so far hangs on a bit of a contradiction. Twice now, you've told me it was dark there. And once that it was well-lit. Have you made your mind up yet?”

Malcolm hung himself in silence.

“Well-lit enough for you to walk home alone, but then too dark for Eska to have seen your face and realised his mistake. Am I right?”

“I don't know.”

“Of course you don't. You don't know anything. It's a wonder you can put your shoes on the right feet in the morning.”

Malcolm let his head fall back against the wall. His neck had a serious crick now. Another one for the list. In another life, he might have laughed at himself. He was being pecked apart by petty pains. If all this broke him, it would be embarrassing. _They stood me up until I cracked. No, really, it was very painful._

“Starfleet's finest,” Fiest remarked, when Malcolm said nothing. Looking for a rise. Malcolm was half tempted to give him one, but the effort overwhelmed him. _And I had itches that I couldn't scratch for clear days..._

“As it happens, I agree,” Fiest continued. “With one of your versions, anyway. It is a well-lit route. We do have good streetlighting here in Chibnia. After the ceasefire, there was a great deal of investment into making our streets safer. Putting an end to the violence.”

“That worked well, then.”

A mistake. Fiest's face twisted nastily.

“Well, if off-worlders will come meddling here, bringing their trouble to our doorstep. I think you must think we're a primitive, stupid people.”

“No,” Malcolm said. “No, I don't think that.”

“I think you come here, with your technology, your starships, and you look down on us little people. Think you can do what you like here, feed us a pack of lies, and your Starfleet will get you off. No consequences for you. Meanwhile, we're left with nothing but consequences. We backward savages, here on Niskaa.”

 _And then my interrogator called himself names until I couldn't take it any more._

“We came here to help you,” Malcolm said.

“Oh, yes, you can afford to be generous. Your people. But charity and respect don't always go hand in hand, do they?” Fiest rocked forward, clasped his hands in front of him. “You look uncomfortable,” he said, in a tone of mock concern.

Malcolm turned his face away.

“Tell me just this one thing, and I'll let you down right now,” Fiest pushed. “Eska got a good look at you, didn't he? The light was good enough. He had you up against the wall, with his knife. Face to face. Tell me honestly. Is it really likely he thought you were someone else?”

“I don't know.”

“No. Of course. He'd apparently lost his tongue since he left his home; I suppose it's entirely credible his eyesight had failed in the meantime too.”

“I don't know.”

“You're very negative today.”

“You're asking...”

“What?”

“I said,” Malcolm spat through the pressure on his chest. “I said, you're asking the wrong person.”

“You’re the only one I can ask. Last man standing.”

“I can't tell you what I don't know. Maybe he – ” Malcolm had to pause to breathe, swallow bile. “Maybe he did know who I was. Disarming his bombs. Maybe your ceasefire isn't going to hold.” _Maybe you could just take the whole Niskaan government down with you. Nice move._ Malcolm shut his eyes against himself. _I did say “Maybe”._

“Oh yes. Yes, we're still considering that line of investigation. But frankly, Lieutenant, that idea doesn't make your story much more credible. Eska was quite the orator, you know. Renowned for it. Great speaker for his movement. I've heard him on newscasts a thousand times. I really can't see him sticking a knife in you against the peace without taking a moment to let you know about it. Honestly, I'm surprised being dead shut him up.”

Malcolm heard Fiest's feet scuff on the floor as he rearranged himself.

“Besides,” he continued. “You'd be an odd target, all things considered. Being an alien. Logically, it would be Niskaans, his old Separatist colleagues, working in Parmaine he'd have real grudge against, if he secretly opposed the ceasefire. Betraying his cause and all. Aliens have nothing to do with our troubles here.”

 _I wish you'd told me this to start with. I could have come up with something that would have served both of us, then. And yes, yes, dragged the Niskaan government down with me. I didn't. Okay?_ Malcolm opened his eyes again, caught by the uneasy paranoia he could be heckling himself out loud. But Fiest was staring mildly into the middle distance, looking unconcerned.

“Of course,” he added. “When I say aliens have nothing to do with our troubles, I do mean directly. Eska obviously had backing from someone off-world. Supplying explosives. Peroxyacetone. His old business colleagues.” He turned his lilac eyes to Malcolm. “Sure there's nothing more you'd like to share? I have no interest in making this harder on you than I have to.”

Malcolm didn't believe him. His grin was too wolfish.

* * *

Back aboard Enterprise, Archer was fretting, hating having nothing proactive to do while Trip and Hoshi worked. He paced the length of his ready room, watching Niskaa hanging huge in the window. He was getting tired of the view. When all this was sorted out and Malcolm was back, Archer was planning on warping out of here so fast they wouldn't see Niskaa for dust.

 _When. If._ At least Admiral McCormick was apparently having a lot more luck talking with Gruun than Archer had. He seemed confident the trial was just a formality. Archer wasn't so sure; Gruun had reassured him the same about the hearing in the first place, and he couldn't shake the feeling things might be going on above his own head on both sides.

Still, one good thing had come of McCormick's efforts, and that was that Archer was heading back down to the surface that evening to see Malcolm. It remained to be seen, in the usual way of Niskaans, if they'd get a chance to speak alone, but at least it was a start. He was worried about Malcolm. Even if they were treating him just fine down there, as promised, Archer hated the thought of his tactical officer being confined, isolated. Lonely, maybe. Afraid. All those things he'd never admit to being. Archer had learned, over the years, not to mistake Malcolm's reserve for a lack of deep feeling. He'd come to feel proud of how well he and Malcolm could work together, the unspoken trust between them, coming as they did from such different pages of the book.

Or he used to feel proud. But doubt shadowed him as he paced. If he was honest, that was what had stung him the hardest over the Qu'vat incident; the revelation that he'd been wrong to assume he knew anything at all about Malcolm Reed, that he’d ever really broken through his guard and met the man – and wrong to imagine Malcolm had ever really come to trust him. It had been more than just a professional betrayal; it had been personal.

And Malcolm must have fooled other people, other COs, that way, over the years, with those quiet, professional, plausible lies. Why should Archer imagine he was any different in Malcolm's eyes?

His thoughts roamed back and forth until Trip and Hoshi interrupted them. He could tell that they'd been successful before they even spoke; Trip had that triumphant glow about him.

“I was right,” he said. “The log had been deleted, but not purged.”

“What do we have? Can we trace the signal?”

“Not quite. It's not a direct line,” Hoshi told him. “It's more like a beacon, or a call sign. What seems to happen is we put it out there, and the recipient picks it up, traces our signal and – presumably – gets back in touch.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then it's back to the drawing board. But we're ready to try this first, on your order, Captain.”

Archer nodded. “Hoshi,” he said. “I don't know how much Trip told you about what you've been working on, but this is classified, understand?”

Hoshi shared a glance with Trip.

“Commander Tucker didn't tell me anything,” she said. “But – ”

“Hoshi kind of figured out whose logs they were just from looking,” Trip put in.

“There aren't that many people on board who set their interface language preference to British-English,” she explained.

“I didn't even know you could do that,” Trip said, with a grin. “I thought English was English.”

“You can take that one up with Lieutenant Reed,” Hoshi smiled. Archer found the banter at odds with his mood.

“Make the call,” he cut in. “Notify me immediately if you get any return.”

“Yes, Captain,” Hoshi said. He nodded dismissal, and she turned to leave, but Trip lingered.

“Did you hear anything new?” he asked, when she'd left the ready room.

“I'm going to see Malcolm this evening.”

“Gonna get to talk to him?”

“I hope so,” Archer said shortly. Trip seemed to be waiting for something more, looked ready to debate. Archer wasn't sure he was in the mood right now to hear Malcolm defended. _Whatever the outcome, Lieutenant Reed, you and I are going to have a long conversation when this is all over._

“Was there something else, Trip?” he asked. He almost said _Commander,_ used Trip's rank as a dismissal, but checked himself at the last minute. Trip was only worried too, after all. And probably wanting some answers of his own.

“There's too much I don't know here,” he said, instead. “I should have made Malcolm talk to me, in more detail, after Qu'vat. I keep thinking back over things he said. Like, he told me Harris hadn't contacted him since he'd been assigned to Enterprise. Now I'm wondering how recently it was that he still Harris’s man. I'd got the impression it was all years ago, but that was only an impression, now I think about it. And I've learned a lot about how wrong impressions can be when it comes to Malcolm Reed.”

“Did it occur to you he might have taken this assignment on Enterprise because he wanted to get away from this kind of thing?”

“Yes. But that didn't work out for him, did it? He just brought it all with him. Made it my problem too.”

“That's a bit harsh, Captain. He wouldn't have had this happen. He came clean when it became an issue, right?”

“Well, no, not exactly. He didn't come clean. He got caught out. And you know what? If we hadn't caught him out, I still wouldn't know. I'd still have an officer on my ship who quietly sabotaged a mission behind my back and then had the nerve to look me in the eye after.”

Even Trip didn't have an answer to that one.

* * *

Fiest left Malcolm for a while and let him stand, strung up, with his aches and his thoughts double-teaming him. Fiest was right to think it was odd that Eska hadn't spoken, but ignorance had been all Malcolm could think of to plead. He didn’t know enough about Eska, and besides, he knew from long experience that the best lies were the simplest kind. Details required remembering later, keeping in order, betrayed themselves in the telling and the re-telling.

He was a good liar, for all that was worth. Knew how to put enough of himself into it to make it feel like truth. He'd hoped to put all that behind him, had become keenly aware that with every good lie he told, he was selling off his real self cheaply, piece by piece, until he hardly knew who he was any more, but it had to be worth something now. It was all he had to save himself with.

It was almost a relief when Fiest returned, guards in tow. His feet had grown too painful to stand on, and he was leaning so much of his weight into his chains that his legs couldn't take it all back again. The guards caught him by the arms as they released him, or he would have fallen.

“Feeling chatty yet?” Fiest asked him, chirpily. “No? Okay then. But you remember, you're the one who can stop this, any time you want. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know.”

“Go hang yourself,” Malcolm suggested.

“Now that is fighting talk,” Fiest said, with relish.

The guards marched Malcolm down the corridor, his legs barely able to keep up, his arms useless and tingling as the blood rushed back in. They took him to a room he hadn't seen before. It looked like a room for the staff, part changing room, part shower. There were lockers along each wall, a bench down the middle, taps at either end, and a long drain running the length of a tiled, wet floor.

They dumped him, dizzy, on the bench, hands on his shoulders holding him in a sitting position. Fiest stood before him, his pose casual, like a man at a social occasion.

“I'd like to talk to you about peroxyacetone,” he said. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

Malcolm fixed him with a grey eye and all the passion his voice could muster.

“I'm a munitions expert, you obtuse fuck.”

Fiest smiled through bared teeth. “You need to learn to check that temper before you accidentally kill someone. And you need to start talking.”

“Or what?” Malcolm looked about himself. Not keen on the look of the taps. “Are you going to wash me to death?”

“Oh no,” Fiest said. “Not to death. That wouldn't be legal.”

When Malcolm guessed what they had in store for him, he let himself lose it. Let blind panic drive all calculating thought from his mind. He had to; he'd talk, he'd betray himself, if he let himself think for one moment that he could stop this. He fought the guards like a drowning man, his spent muscles finding strength in desperation. He got some shots in too, made one of the guards grunt in pain with an elbow in the gut. For all that was worth. They had everything on him; numbers, strength, size, freshness, and they never gave him a chance to get his legs under him for any kind of leverage.

He had a mouthful of blood by the time they got him on his back along the bench. One of them pinned him with a knee across his throat and a handful of hair. Malcolm kicked out, blindly, felt his foot connect with flesh, got a winding punch in the stomach as an answer. Hands caught hold of his wrists. He was uncuffed briefly, and tried to make it count, but he was floundering for air already, and he couldn't see what he was hitting at.

They jerked his arms down, behind him, and re-cuffed them under the bench. The pressure on his throat released a notch, and Malcolm rolled sideways, landing on his knees on the floor, his arms trapped and twisted backwards. He was panting, snarling wordless, breathless threats at the legs of the people around him. Fiest raised a hand to the guards, and they stepped back.

“Last chance,” he said to Malcolm. Malcolm locked his eyes on Fiest's face and drove himself to hate him beyond all reason. It wasn't hard. He swore at him; spat blood. The stitches on his cheek had broken in the struggle. Fat, red droplets were running down him, pooling with awful vividness on the tiled floor.

Fiest shrugged. “Your call.”

They hauled him back onto the bench. One of them knelt across his chest, trapping him, while they tied him in place, passing ropes around his legs and around his middle. Malcolm kicked one of them in the face, but it didn’t stop them. A strong hand caught him by the jaw, and a rag was stuffed between his teeth. A handful of hair held his head in place as Fiest leaned over him.

“Can he breathe?” he asked. Looked for a moment at Malcolm's heaving chest. Seemed satisfied. Malcolm moaned with mirthless horror against his gag. Fiest's concern was ridiculous enough to be surreal. For a moment, he felt out of his body. This wasn't happening to him. It was someone else. He could stay out of it.

“Good stuff,” Fiest said, and grinned down at him. “You can't imagine the paperwork, if you did die.” Malcolm resolved that if he did die, to do so out of spite, and to make sure Fiest knew it. Fiest raised his eyes to one of the guards.

“Get the hose,” he said.

Malcolm couldn't stay out of it. And with no fight to channel his panic into, he couldn't stop his thoughts crowding. It would have been so easy to stop this, just a few little words, and what was he even trying to protect anyway? Nothing worth this. _This_ was the betrayal; he’d sold himself out to his nightmare. Made himself a traitor to every single time he'd woken with a jolt in the dark, his throat full of cold nothing, gasping for air. To every single time he'd told himself it was just a dream.

He had no leverage to struggle, though he tried with all his strength. Tried to hold his breath, in the hope that they might spare him, but he was already winded, and his lungs kept sucking air. They dropped the legs of the bench into the low funnel of the drain, so Malcolm’s head was inclined a few inches below his feet. A towel was thrown over his face. He heard them moving around him, fumbling with what had to be the hose. Heard the water start running near his head, and screamed into his gag. Screamed, and didn't stop until they turned the water on his face, and it flowed, cold, killing, pouring into him, up his nose, soaking through the fabric in his mouth.

Whatever Fiest said, they were killing him. When they stopped between dousings to check on him, they were only prolonging it, giving him extra seconds to flop and gasp like a beached fish, trying desperately to swallow down what he couldn't spit back up, to clear his airways, before they drowned him all over again. He couldn't cough, or retch, trapped on his back, only grab snatches of air between soakings and will Fiest with all his heart to start thinking of his paperwork. Acid bile from abortive attempts to vomit was tearing up his throat and lungs. He was breathing fire, when he could breathe at all.

They stopped, finally, when Malcolm made the discovery that not breathing was better. He was limp with shock; couldn't move when they pulled off the towel, pulled out his soaking, bloodstained gag. His eyes were open, but whatever he was looking at meant nothing; blurring to grey around the edges, and the grey blurring into him. There were hands all over him, untying him, uncuffing him, rolling him off the bench, holding him on his knees, but he hardly felt them – until they started banging him with vigour between the shoulder blades.

Banging breath back into him. He spluttered, heaved, threw up water, blood, and bile, gasped great mouthfuls of air, then coughed them back up again. When the hands released him, he lay where he fell, choking, panting. His fingers raked weakly at the wet floor, but found no purchase.

They left him to it for a while, sitting on the benches around him. Chatting to each other. Talking about him, and about other, inconsequential things. One of them poked him with a foot every now and then. Malcolm's insides recoiled in horror at the sensation of their attention on him, but no part of him would move except his heaving lungs. He must be dead, and all that was left was this broken machine for breathing.

Except that was wishful thinking. He wasn't dead, and Fiest would make him face the consequences. His threatening form was looming, unmistakable, even through Malcolm's watery vision.

“Shall we see if that loosened your tongue?” he suggested. Malcolm thought this was optimistic. Between the wreck of his throat and his spent lungs, he wasn't sure he'd ever talk again.

The guards lifted him up. Propped him on his feet. It was a surprise to them all when his legs took his weight, though Malcolm couldn't compel himself to walk, and they had to drag him back down the corridor. Back to one of those innumerable, indistinguishable, humming, white rooms. They cuffed his hands behind his back again before dumping him in a chair. He was slumped and silent as Fiest took a seat across the table from him.

“So,” Fiest said. “Peroxyacetone.” As though their conversation had barely paused. “What was it you were telling me? About how unstable it is?”

Malcolm didn't answer. Couldn't. Wasn't even being stubborn, just wasn't ever wasting breath again.

“Now, come on. We went through all that just to get some answers. Don't tell me we'll have to do it all again.”

He became aware he was shaking. Shivering. His extremities numb.

“Come on, help me out here. If peroxyacetone is so unstable, how do smugglers handle it? I'm just asking out of interest, mind.”

Malcolm almost spat with laughter. He knew the answer, but the answer was _they damp it._ The irony would end him. He said nothing.

“I'm not asking for an admission of guilt here, just information. You are, after all, a munitions expert. If you don't answer, I'll be forced to conclude you're being deliberately uncooperative. Not that you've ever been anything else, but at least we had the pretence before. No?”

No. Fiest leaned forward and laced his hands. “I assure you, I can hold out here longer than you can. I'll get what I want sooner or later. You can stop this when you like, Lieutenant. Or should I call you Malcolm? You're not looking very worthy of your rank right now. Not behaving very worthy either. What do you think?”

No. Fiest tapped his fingers with impatience. Sat back. The legs of his chair scrapped loudly in the silent room. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with poison. “You don't like the water, do you?”

Malcolm had to stay impassive. Had to. His damp, pathetic, wrung out life depended on it. He bit the inside of his lip, hard. Copper taste. He might be sick again. Fiest chuckled.

“Well, at least I've learned something of value today,” he said. “The way straight to your heart. How many sessions like that do you think you could take? How about another one right now?” He raised a hand to the guards. Malcolm lurched in his seat, fumbled to get his feet under him, but the guards never moved, and Fiest just laughed harder. “That bad, is it? You tell me something now, and maybe we won't have to.”

Malcolm let his head drop. He was sunk, now Fiest had figured out how to work his weakness. It would be easy enough just to follow Fiest’s lead, give him a few _yes_ answers. Work out something that felt real enough for both of them. It needn't be true; Harris needn't worry that Malcolm was telling any secrets. The worst enemy he had in this room was himself.

Fiest was leaning forward again now, speaking earnestly. “Come on, Malcolm. I've got nothing else planned for this afternoon. You'll talk to me, or you'll get another dunking. It's all in your hands.”

His face was too close. Malcolm lunged, fast and without thought, launching himself across the table. His head connected hard with Fiest's face, with a satisfying crunch. The table tipped, and Malcolm was thrown forward, knocking Fiest and his chair flying, both of them finishing up sprawled on the floor in a tangle of overturned furniture.

A split second of shocked silence, then Fiest started swearing in guttural Niskaan. Malcolm, mission accomplished, rolled away from him. All he had time to do, before one of the guards connected with his head hard enough to turn the lights out.

When Malcolm came back to himself, he was pressed flat on his front, arms twisted behind him, and a boot at his throat. Blood was gumming his cheek to the floor. He could see feet and overturned chairs. Heard nothing but his splitting head for a moment, then voices resolved themselves from the jangle of light and sound. A spiteful boot caught him sharply in the ribs. Fiest.

Malcolm was starting to get used to him from this angle, glowering, looming. Fiest was wiping blood from his face with a swipe of his arm. His nose looked thoroughly broken. Malcolm wanted to gloat, but all he could come out with was a bloody spit bubble. His arms were twisted tighter.

“You had to make this personal, didn't you?” Fiest said. He had blood on his teeth too. It suited his grin. He jabbed Malcolm in the ribs again. “Take him back to the wet room,” he said to the guard. “ _Drown_ the fucker.”

Fiest never even asked him to talk this time. Never asked a question; seemed all done with his two-faced little offers. It was just punishment, and punishment Malcolm was powerless to stop – which put his traitorous self right out of harm’s way. If he didn’t have the power, he didn’t have to worry that he’d use it. Fiest had been right; knew him better than he imagined. Malcolm really did have to make it personal.


	4. Chapter 4

The atmosphere on Enterprise, after weeks in Niskaan orbit, was starting to get a little claustrophobic. Departments had been taking the opportunity to play catch up with routine work, to upgrade, to modify, to spring-clean, but there was no getting round the fact that Enterprise was crewed to be a ship which moved. Archer knew, objectively, his ready room and his quarters were the same size whether they were going or not, but somehow the stars being still in the windows were making a difference. All the walls were leaning closer in.

It didn't help that no pastime robbed relaxation like waiting for a call which could come at any minute, or in an hour, or not at all.

False alarms didn't help either. Hoshi came on the comm to tell him they were being hailed, and Archer's heart had time to make it all the way to his throat before she could tell him it was McCormick again. The admiral had been negotiating tirelessly on Malcolm's behalf, but Archer couldn't shake the fear that they were putting themselves at a disadvantage by playing rigidly by the rules which the Niskaans – and the Section – might have no qualms about bending.

“Jon, you know we have to respect the Niskaans have legal authority within their own borders,” McCormick reminded him, his tone remarkably even, considering they'd been over all this before. “And it's not like it's even unreasonable – a man did die, and in violent circumstances. They have every right to an investigation.”

Which was all very well, but Archer already knew that some sections of Starfleet had no such respect for authority or rights. He hated having things on his mind he couldn't talk about; having to dodge, and talk around issues. It was contrary to his nature. His expressions of frustration felt stunted. He wondered if this was what it had been like for Malcolm for years, feeling cornered over the most mundane of conversations. As Trip had said, no wonder non-disclosure had become his habit.

“It's not Gruun's investigation I have a problem with,” he said to McCormick, but this was old ground now.

“We've been trying to negotiate extradition,” the admiral told him. “I've even offered to try Lieutenant Reed ourselves if they'll hand him back, but Gruun wasn't having that. He says if this Eska was involved in any kind of local dissidence, we're not going to find that out in a Starfleet court. Which, as a point, I can't really argue with.”

Archer had a sinking sense they'd lost a battle already, if what was on the negotiating table now was simply where to hold the trial.

“But if this does involve local dissidence, some kind of Niskaan subterfuge, this can only get more political before it's done,” he pushed. “How can we be sure they'll give him a fair hearing?”

“Because they know they have our attention, and we'll have something to say about it if they don't,” McCormick said, bluntly. It sounded like fighting talk, but the fight itself was too remote for Archer to put his trust in.

“So it'll be okay to disrespect their legal authority if we don't like the outcome? I don't see how our situation will be any different then than it is now.” And most of all, Archer wasn't convinced the Niskaans really saw Starfleet's attention as any particular threat, whatever Gruun had insinuated. They'd had no trouble getting their own way so far.

“Because the fault will lie with them if they don't try him fairly,” McCormick said. “But if we act out of turn first, it's more than just our standing with the Niskaans we'll damage – the news would spread around the entire region we can't be trusted to respect local jurisdiction if it doesn't suit us. Not to mention the internal repercussions on Niskaa if they can't uncover whether or not this Eska had some anti-peace agenda. It's in everybody's interests to work together for an answer.”

“Everybody's except Lieutenant Reed's. He's the one who's been the victim of a crime here. The Niskaans should be answering to _us_ for putting him at risk.”

“And we'll ask those questions, when the time is right. Don't worry, Jon, we have no intention of leaving Lieutenant Reed high and dry. Gruun assures me they have no particular interest in seeing him serve time in a Niskaan prison. He's all but promised they will extradite him after the trial, if he is convicted.”

Archer shook his head. “Extradition isn’t release,” he pointed out. “They’re not going to hand him back to us just so we can set him free. They'll want jail time.”

“We'll negotiate the best deal we can. But once he's back in our hands, he'll have all the rights an Earth prisoner has – including the right to appeal. If a Starfleet court doesn't like the Niskaan evidence, they'll overturn his conviction. The Niskaans might not care for that, but everything will have been conducted legally on both sides. Our reputation remains intact, and Lieutenant Reed walks free. Provided his conduct isn't really in question, of course.”

Archer frowned at the admiral's afterthought. Tireless negotiator McCormick might be, but the man had no personal stake in this, and it showed. Archer had his own misgivings, but they were between him and Malcolm. Doubt from an outsider felt like a judgement on his entire crew, and on his own authority. Especially since McCormick barely knew Malcolm himself. The odd handshake at formal occasions, no more.

“I'm sure his conduct was fine,” he said, with a firmness that put a foot down on his own shadows of doubt.

“Anyway, we're talking about a worst case scenario here,” McCormick reminded him. “Without evidence, the Niskaans will acquit him. You can take him straight back to Enterprise, and forget this ever happened.”

 _Easy for you to say._ At least, Archer was assuming McCormick knew no more about Malcolm than his handshake. This whole situation had given him an eerie sense of teetering on the edge of freefall, with no handholds left that he could trust. What would Starfleet do if revelations about their Section were in danger of leaking out, of being exposed in court, say? Harris had asked him not to be too hard on Malcolm after Qu'vat, but Archer wasn't sure that he would have, or could have, done anything further to protect his man if Archer had been determined to push for court martial.

But then, surely an agent facing court martial was a serious security risk to the Section. It stretched credulity that they could secure loyalty – and silence – if they treated their people as dispensable, but then Archer knew Malcolm, and he knew Malcolm, at least, would have placed his duty before defending himself in court, and done so without a peep. Perhaps that was a quality they looked for on recruitment. The idea felt sinister, manipulative, to Archer, and he felt a rise of anger on Malcolm's behalf.

He eyed McCormick on the screen thoughtfully. Chose his words carefully.

“It all sounds very simple on the face of it, Admiral. But I'm concerned there may be other factors at work here. Other... interested sections, maybe.” He watched McCormick's face closely for any sign of a flicker. Saw none.

“I'm not sure what you're getting at,” the admiral said. “Do you mean factions on Niskaa?”

“Possibly. Or elsewhere.”

“You're not being clear, Captain. Would you care to elaborate?”

Genuine question, or veiled challenge? Archer wasn't sure. He studied the admiral's face, but could draw no conclusions. Malcolm hadn't batted an eyelid either, when he'd told his lies to Archer, after all. Practise made perfect. The thought redirected his anger again. If the Section had taken advantage of Malcolm's qualities to manipulate him, then Malcolm had taken advantage of Archer's too, or tried to.

“I just want my officer back,” he told McCormick. Backing down. He barely listened to the admiral's closing reassurances, his mind already on the next task. His visit with Malcolm. So much had been thrown up since the last time they'd spoken, he hardly knew what to expect. _It's Malcolm. Just Malcolm,_ he told himself, because he didn't want to go in there blazing, but he couldn't make the thought resonate. He felt like he was preparing to meet with a stranger.

As soon as McCormick was gone from the screen, Hoshi was on the comm again, with another message. Gruun, this time, and the communication was text only, citing problems with the network in Chibnia again.

 _Sincere apologies, Captain, but your scheduled visit has been postponed following an incident involving your officer and an assault on one of our agents. We regret the necessity. You'll receive a full report and the opportunity to reschedule in due course._

 _For a moment, frustration nearly closed Archer’s throat. He walked to his window, his footfalls hard. Niskaa in shadow. _Malcolm, what the hell is going on? What did they do to you? What did you do to them?__

He had Hoshi try and call the Premier straight back, but all they received in response was a pre-recorded message claiming communications were down. Incensed, Archer tried Advocate Rasak instead, and got straight through.

“Incident?” he demanded. Rasak blinked lilac eyes at him, and said that he knew nothing about any incident, but he'd speak to a contact at the jail and let Archer know what he'd learned. The advocate's air was somewhat reproachful, and as he signed off, Archer felt bad about snapping. It wasn't Rasak's fault he was apparently in possession of the only working comm system in Chibnia tonight, after all.

When his screen chirped again, Archer swung to it, all ready to face Rasak, to hear the worst, but it wasn't the young advocate's image that flashed up on his screen this time.

It was Harris.

“Did you want something?” he said, without preamble.

Thrown, Archer was speechless for a moment, and then sorely tempted to retort, _can you get the hell off the line? I'm busy._

“You could say that,” he said darkly, instead. He took his seat in front of the screen slowly, to give himself time to decide where to start.

* * *

“Niskaa?” Harris said, and his tone made Archer’s heart sink. He sounded genuinely nonplussed. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Captain, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. I hardly know where Niskaa is.”

“Your Section has never been involved there? Lieutenant Reed has never been there?” Archer let his scepticism show in his voice, determined not to let Harris think he could be played. Nonplussed or not, the man hadn’t gotten to – well, whatever position he’d gotten to, without developing a damn good poker face.

“Not on my orders. Perhaps he’s been freelancing.”

“I think you’d be telling me that whether it was true or not.”

“Well, maybe so.” Harris didn’t seem perturbed to admit this, just faintly amused. Archer had the sense he wasn’t perturbed by much. “But in this instance, it happens to be true. Niskaa has no strategic value to Starfleet, and it poses no threat, so we’re not interested. Whatever impression you’ve gained of us, we’re not in the business of making random mischief.”

“And what about Lieutenant Reed?” The very question on Archer’s mind, after Gruun’s message, but he was careful not to let it show. He had a feeling Harris would hone in on uncertainty like a shark after blood.

“I don’t know that he’s in the business of making random mischief either,” Harris said. “But if he is, it has nothing to do with me.”

“In this instance?” Archer echoed Harris’s own words pointedly.

“In this instance,” Harris agreed. This seemed to please him; at least, he gave Archer a slightly ironic half smile. Archer supposed it served as an acknowledgement of the reach of his Section – and his power over Malcolm. The man struck Archer as a player, sitting safely behind his screen, working people like pieces on a chessboard.

“So if Niskaa doesn’t have any interest for you, what about Lieutenant Reed? Does he have any strategic value to you? Or pose any threat?”

“Not much of either, right now. Why, do you think we’re trying to take him out? I could think of simpler ways.”

“Could you?” Archer’s tone was biting.

“I could. But I’m not.” Harris’s response was bland, but the implication was clear. He had that kind of power, and wasn’t too troubled if Archer knew it.

“See, I’d think you might have a pretty pressing motivation to silence him,” Archer said. “As a former agent, he could expose your Section.”

“I’m not worried,” Harris said. His voice was firm, but there was something else to it too. That edge of self-satisfaction again.

“Why not?”

“Not your business. And this Niskaan problem isn’t my business. Sorry, Captain, but I don’t know anything about it.”

“Lieutenant Reed seems to think you do.”

“Maybe he's trying to set _us_ up, did you think of that? Now you think you're in the know, he could blame any indiscretion of his on us, and know that you'd swallow it.”

“I don't believe that.” Archer knew Harris was trying to muddy the waters. He only wished he could tell if the man's motive was to bait him, to obscure some truth, or just plain force of habit.

Harris shrugged. “Then I don't know what to tell you.”

Stalemate. Archer was very aware that if Harris ran out of patience and chose to end the conversation, this chance would be lost. He decided not to push hostilities.

“Well, if this has nothing to do with you, perhaps you might suggest a way to help. Because right now, I'm out of information, and out of ideas.” It was a wrench to admit this to Harris, but the man probably knew it anyway, and besides, Archer had a hunch a direct appeal for help might work better on his ego.

“I'm a busy man, Captain,” Harris told him. “I'll be frank, this wouldn't be my priority.”

“No loyalty for your former agent? Maybe I read him wrong when I saw him. Maybe he wasn't trying to tell me anything. Maybe he wanted me to ask you for help.” Archer didn't believe for a minute Malcolm would really want to go begging, but when Harris answered him with another small, self-contained smile, he was sure he was onto something.

“Thing is,” Harris said, “Malcolm already knows what my favours cost. And he hasn't paid me back for the last one yet.”

This was unexpected. “And what exactly do your favours cost?”

“That's classified.”

Archer narrowed his eyes. Malcolm had said nothing to him about Harris’s favours putting him in any kind of debt, and Archer hadn’t asked, trusting that Malcolm would have told him anything he ought to know about their meeting. “He asked for that information on Terra Prime on my orders. If there's anything owed, that's on me, not him.”

“If you wanted me to deal with you, you should have asked me yourself,” Harris said. “Of course, I would have said no, but at least you'd have your moral high ground to console yourself with. Instead, you sent him to do your dirty work.”

“Oh, and that's your job?” Archer fired at him, letting his temper show to hide his sudden sense things had taken a left turn. He felt foolish, and feared looking it too. _Goddamn, Malcolm, you are going to stop throwing that trust back in my face._

Harris didn't answer, but his lack of denial was pointed.

“If Malcolm is convicted, he'll be extradited back to Earth,” Archer told him, biting off his words. “A Starfleet court will hear his appeal. If it turns out you have anything to do with what's happened here, I'll make damn sure the court knows all about it. I'll make damn sure everyone does. I'll blow your whole Section wide open.”

Harris raised an eyebrow. “You could try,” he said. “I hate to burst your bubble, Captain, but you're hardly the first or the worst threat the Section has faced. We know how this game works – and let's face it, Starfleet knows it too. You get up on that stand, and you might as well be talking to the empty air. You don't know jack that could compromise us.”

“I might not,” Archer returned. “But I bet Malcolm does. We're not just talking about my word here.”

“Reed's not saying anything. He knows his job. Admittedly, there's no accounting for the decisions he makes sometimes, but I'd put money on you finding your prime witness gets cold feet before he ever sees that courtroom.”

“I think your assessment of his loyalties is out of date. His job is here on Enterprise.”

Again, Harris made no reply, but again, his eyes were bright as though he was sitting on some amusing secret. Archer picked his way back through the pieces of their conversation, looking for the key. Doubt made the hair on his neckline prickle. What was it that Malcolm hadn't told him? And just exactly when in their working relationship was he going to stop tripping over these lies by omission?

“What did you make him promise you?” he asked grimly. To hell with looking foolish, he had to know.

“I didn't make him promise anything. He could have walked away from me. He chose not to.”

Archer felt lost, trusting nothing he'd thought he'd known. Did Harris mean Terra Prime? Qu'vat? Another time?

“When?” he demanded. But Harris only smiled at his confusion. _Poker face_ , Archer reminded himself, but the man so plainly knew _something_ and didn't much care if Archer could see it.

Archer fixed him with a steely eye. “You're trying to bait me,” he said. “And it won't work. If he was really still working for you, you'd never blow his cover just to gloat.”

“He's blown his cover with you already. As it happens, it would suit me just fine to have him reassigned somewhere he doesn't find his loyalties quite so torn. You compromise him.”

“ _I_ compromise him?” Archer threw back. “You haven't seen compromised yet. If this comes out in court, you won't be able to send him anywhere, because everyone's going to know exactly who you are and what you're up to.”

“Well, you’re half right. I wouldn't be able to send him anywhere because he'd be better off taking whatever trumped up charge the Niskaans pin on him than telling the truth to a Starfleet court, and he knows it.”

“Are you threatening him?”

“Not at all. It's just the truth.”

Archer fixed him in the eye. “What the hell kind of organisation do you run?”

“The kind that keeps Starfleet’s conscience clean.” Harris showed him his teeth in a neat little smile.

“I'm not sure you're clear on what a conscience is.”

“Well, maybe not. But I am clear on this: if you bring us to Starfleet’s attention, they might make some token noise. They might even launch an investigation. But they’re not going to find anything, because they won’t want to. And as for Reed…” Those teeth again. “If you present them with a culpable agent, you’ll be handing them a chance to look proactive at no cost to themselves, or us. You put him on the stand, they'll lock him up, and they'll throw away the key.”

“You'd set him up?” Archer wanted to doubt everything, to cling to his conviction he was being lied to, but this all sounded chillingly plausible. The Section couldn't possibly have survived this long if they wouldn't sacrifice an agent to the mercies of whatever he had coming to him before they'd reveal themselves.

“He'd set himself up. Think it through, _Captain_.” Harris pronounced his rank like sarcasm. “The Section isn't an open book, even for our agents. Lieutenant Reed only really knows what Lieutenant Reed has done. He'll talk himself right into a cell. If you can persuade him to do that, well... I might not be the expert on consciences, but I'd say that would be on yours, not mine.”

“I notice,” Archer said, “that you've stopped denying you know anything about this. You've been telling me lies since we started talking. There's no reason I should believe a word you've said.”

“I haven’t lied.” Harris looked amused. “But as it happens, I do know the nature of the trouble he’s in. I wonder what he’ll tell you, when you ask him what he’s done.” That half-smirk was still playing on his mouth, and Archer latched right onto it. This wasn’t something Harris had to tell him to throw him off the scent, or make him back off, this was just plain gloating, and that was a weakness.

“Malcolm has served under me for four years,” Archer said through clenched teeth. “I've trusted him with this ship, with my life, more times than I can count. I know, whatever he's been involved in before, he's an honourable man. He wouldn't hurt anyone if he didn't have to.”

“I'm not insinuating he stuck a knife in that Niskaan for fun. But he worked for me for longer than he's worked for you. I'd suggest I've seen a side of him you haven't.”

“I want the truth, Harris. I’ll know it anyway, sooner or later. Malcolm will tell me himself, when he can.”

“It’s classified,” Harris said. “But that doesn’t matter. It’s not the truth that’ll set him free now. Still want me to help you?”

It took some force of will for Archer not to throw the offer straight back in his face

“I'm not sure I want your brand of help,” he said, carefully. “I'm not sure either of us do.”

“Then Reed's best hope is that the Niskaan legal system isn't up to much. Tell him good luck from me.”

Archer wavered, thoughts racing. Wanted his decision, whatever it was, to seem firm, informed. Harris's confidence in the power of the Section, in Malcolm's subterfuge, had pulled the rug out from under him. He wanted to dismiss everything, doubt it all, but he was in the dark here, and too much had the ring of hard truth rather than an easy lie.

And then there was that message from Gruun. Assault on an agent. If Malcolm had gotten himself into further trouble, he might have put himself beyond help.

“What form would this help of yours take?”

“That would be my problem. All you'd have to do is carry on with your business as normal.”

“The situation here is delicate,” Archer said. Still not asking, just testing the ground. “If this man Eska was working to undermine the Niskaan ceasefire –”

“I know. Leave that up to us.”

“If the ceasefire was breached, a lot of people could be in danger from further insurgence.”

“I know the situation, Captain. Better than you, with respect. We know how to do this.”

Archer met his eyes, unwavering. Didn't change his expression, didn't move, didn't say anything. Couldn't bring himself to, but he didn't say _no deal_ either, and Harris acknowledged this with a minute nod.

 _Four years,_ Archer reminded himself as the screen went blank. _We've worked together, fought together. You can't do that and not find out who a man is, at heart._

He felt like he'd wagered a good portion of his soul on that turning out to be true.

* * *

They took the mattress off Malcolm's bunk, leaving only bare slats, and so he passed the hours, after the short drag back to his cell, on the floor. He felt feverishly wakeful, his eyes wide and dry, but seeing nothing. His hands were still cuffed behind him, and he shivered without respite in his damp clothes, racking himself with periodic coughing fits. His ears swum with water sounds; the rising and falling of waves, the crashing of breakers, and the salt tang of sweat on his lip became the taste of brine.

He'd lived most of his life with the sea at the edge of his consciousness – home, San Francisco; it had always been with him. It made no difference whether he loved it, hated it, was scared of it, regarded it with mistrust or with awe, it was in his blood. Inescapably a part of him, much like his father was unarguably still his father, even if he tended to rouse in Malcolm much the same emotions. Whatever choices he'd made, he couldn't truly disown either, though that knowledge had always left him with the uneasy sensation that he'd left an opening for either to come back and claim him.

There was a place he used to go as a boy, when he was at home from school, at the mouth of the Hamoaze, the natural harbour and estuary where three rivers – Tamar, Tavy and Lynher – collided and poured into Plymouth Sound, and from there into the widest part of the English Channel. The Sound was a good place to watch seals, which watched him back, their curious dog faces bobbing.

There were boats there too, moored to buoys all along the edges of the estuary. At low tide, they lay on the uncovered silt, all aslant, looking shipwrecked; at high tide, the sea rushed back in and picked them up again. Malcolm had known all their names, and marked their comings and goings, but there was one there that had never gone anywhere. _Seacatch_ , she was called, and she'd been neat at first, all new ropes, clean wooden slats, fresh paint, until the sea washed her name away, and then she was called nothing.

Malcolm supposed some tourist had paid money for her, and honoured her mooring fees, but otherwise, she seemed forgotten, unregarded by anyone but him. The tides started to take her apart. Unmaintained, her planks cracked, and she no longer floated, but lay beached at the low tide and was drowned on the high, only the buoy showing above the surface, and the chain that tethered her slanting anonymously down into the grey water. She became a ribbed, wrecked corpse, sinking into the silt, and then the sea took the rest of her away, piece by piece. In the end, all that remained was the buoy, and chained to it, a hunk of shattered, discoloured wood that had once belonged to the prow.

Malcolm reminded himself of _Seacatch_ now. She was the ship foremost on his mind. Enterprise was high and dry dream.

The guards came again. He could tell, because there were suddenly boots in his eyeline. He felt unbearably dizzy, his whole world on a slant, until he worked out how he was lying, cheek pressed to the floor.

He tried to rally himself, throw off his sleepless stupor. The guards had a spring in their step which made him wonder if it was morning. Time was playing tidal tricks on him. He could remember asking Rasak what day it was, but not what his answer had been, and couldn't, at any rate, say exactly when it had been that he had asked. Yesterday?

And how long before that had the killing been? The cool, dark streets of Chibnia felt like a whole other world. Was that really all he was here for? It hardly seemed relevant somehow. Eska wasn't anyone really. Nothing to Malcolm, at least, though God knows if he had been, things might have been different...

No.

At least the guards were looking at him properly now. He'd been upgraded from non-person to potential threat. Pathetic as it sounded, it did a little something for his self-esteem, not that it could do him much good from down here.

He found he didn't much care what they did to him. He felt purged of lesser pains and fears. Amazing what could be achieved with just a towel and a hose. Fiest must be laughing his head off. Malcolm thought again of the estuary, of learning how to swim. His father playfully ducking him, and then telling him not to be so ridiculous, that he wasn't going to hurt him, that he had him all along. His father had never understood that it was the _having him_ that was the problem. If no one _had him_ , he could swim for himself. If no one _had him_ , he wouldn't be under the bloody water in the first place.

They gave him a beating instead of breakfast. That was okay. It was a precise, professional bruising, not designed to break teeth or bones, but to tenderise, to humiliate, to hammer home his helplessness. Malcolm thought of his father again, and the sting of salt air on a split lip, and kept himself as still as he could.

After, they uncuffed him, and let him bring his hands back in front of him. The act of untwisting his shoulders, which had long since given up hope, was as painful as any of the blows he'd been dealt. They passed the chain around the leg of the now useless bunk and re-attached him, at liberty to raise himself to a hunched kneel at best. He lay down carefully on his back, with his arms stretched above his head.

Sleep hit him like a brick, and he was gone before he could even work out how uncomfortable he was.

* * *

Door click. Footfalls. A shadow falling across his face, shutting out the red light that was leaking through his eyelids. His head was a dead weight, pinning him to the floor.

His eyes were thumbed open. A medic, with a guard behind her. She offered him, absurdly, a small smile when she saw he was conscious. It felt like more trouble to roll his eyes shut again than it did to just stare, so Malcolm watched her as she moved above him, probing at his wounds. She daubed something that smelled like antiseptic on his hands and stomach. It stung, but not enough to rouse him.

Until she turned her attention to the split stitches on his cheek. She came near his face with a damp cloth, and he moved so hard and fast he really might have hurt her if he hadn't still been chained. As it was, he was trapped on his back, and his cuffed wrists took all the shock of his reaction. The guard moved almost as fast as he did, interposing himself in front of the medic while Malcolm struggled his way to his knees.

Moving even that far left Malcolm panting, so he could offer no resistance as the guard caught him deftly under an arm and by the jaw, holding him firmly in place while the medic cleaned and re-stitched his cheek. It felt like a ridiculous pantomime, given how the stitches had broken in the first place, but the guard's grip was undaunted.

Malcolm couldn't help moaning when the medic produced a syringe. Might not have been above saying _no_ , saying _please_ , but his throat wouldn't get into gear. She wasn't smiling any more as she slipped the needle into the sore muscle of his upper arm.

The shot cleared his head, but too much. Everything in the room piled in on top of him, assaulting his senses, snatching at his breath. His skin crawled all over him. Their job done, they left him, and he couldn't keep still. When he found himself at the limit of where his chains would let him go, he started to yank on them, short, angry jerks, getting harder and harder as his adrenaline caught hold.

He was working up a satisfying rhythm when the door clanged and the guard came back in. Malcolm saw no point in being furtive about what he was doing, so he didn't stop until the guard rapped pointedly on his shoulder with a closed fist. Then he paused, leaning back with his full weight against the chains.

“What?” he asked. It was the first word, besides screaming, he'd spoken since the wet room. His voice was a painful rasp.

“Don't do that,” the guard told him.

“Why not?” _Am I going to break the chains? The bed? This could be fun._

“You'll hurt yourself.” Oh. That.

“I don't mind.”

“Well, we do.”

This was very silly. Malcolm shook his head, and started tugging on the chains again, trying to recapture his rhythm. The guard let out a world-weary sigh, then punched him between the shoulder blades, planting him neatly flat on his stomach. He parked his foot and most of his weight on Malcolm's back, and spoke into his radio dispassionately. Other guards came, and they all stood around him, discussing him as a problem of logistics.

Malcolm felt a sudden empathy for them all as men, knowing from experience how dull security work could sometimes be. He was almost pleased to be able to provide a point of interest in their day – or he would have been, if he could have concentrated on anything other than getting air into his lungs. He was caught in a press between boot and floor.

The guard on his back soon hit on a solution to their problem. He leaned forward and told Malcolm firmly in his ear that if he caused them any more trouble, he'd get more of what they gave him yesterday. Malcolm didn't doubt his tone, and he could only nod compliance, his cheeks colouring. That he was bound to have to face the hose again sooner or later was a deliberately unexamined thought lurking in the back of his mind.

When the boot lifted, Malcolm propped himself up on his elbows and started to cough. By the time he'd found his breath again, his eyes were streaming, and he was alone. He kicked a bit in frustration, but didn't dare keep it up for too long.

He lay down again, carefully on his side. Wondered what Niskaan prison would be like, if he was convicted. At least they wouldn’t ask him any more questions. They might even switch the lights out from time to time. A few hours quiet, a few hours dark. It seemed like the height of all imaginable luxuries. He was so close, too. Too close. What did they want him to tell them again? He wasn't even clear on that. Didn't know what Fiest knew, or thought he knew.

He started coughing again, and he shook something inside himself loose, because it only got worse. He had to drag himself to his knees again to give himself room to heave. Counted his breaths to ward off panic. Was it possible to dry-drown, this long after a dunking? That felt like the sort of thing he ought to know, having never been one to spare himself the grim details of his phobia.

As a boy, he'd been warned direly about the power of the sea. Always told he could swim where he chose, as long as he checked the tides first, like a good sailor – and if he didn't, and he drowned, it would be his own fault. Or at least, he’d been warned when he was small. As he’d grown older, his father had stopped reminding him, and Malcolm had never been sure even then if Stuart Reed had just assumed he ought to know by now, or if he’d decided he wouldn’t much mind after all, losing Malcolm to the sea. A fate fitting for a Reed at least, and preferable to losing him to space.

He wondered what his father would say now, if he received the news that his son had drowned after all, light years from home, on an alien world. If he’d still say of Malcolm in years to come that it was all his own fault, and he should have checked the tides.

* * *

Controlled detonation might be best – if the area could be cleared quickly and safely. There'd be flying metal, flying glass, falling brick work. Malcolm had worked with bombs before that had their casings packed full of nails and screws... seen that in action. But not on Niskaa. Eska's bomb would have been a more business-like effort, not that that would have made a stroke of difference to the people who buried their dead.

Radio detonated. That meant there'd be a man with his finger on the button somewhere. Would he go and look after, the trigger-man? Would he want to see, before he ran, safely unobserved in the chaos? Flames climbing skyward. The metal ticking hot. Would he think, _I did that with a finger?_ Would he laugh, an exhilarated, incredulous laugh? _I did that._ Rate the bang out of ten. Was it good enough for him? What had he been aiming for? More death? Less death? Just enough death?

“Lieutenant Reed?”

No. No, it hadn't gone off. He was going to stop it. Put the fire back into its box. Rewind. One man with a trigger-finger. Not yet cocked. Lives still being lived. The trigger would have to be neutralised – shot, arrested, sat on – but even then, a radio-controlled device would still be sensitive to stray signals. You'd have to shut down communications in the locality to work on it safely. How easy would that be? Communications in Chibnia could go down if someone coughed, but you probably couldn't count on that...

“Lieutenant Reed?”

Access would be a problem too. How much clearance did Niskaan public transport vehicles have under them anyway? Enough for someone to get under there in the first place, but planting bombs was the easy part. Making bombs was the easy part. When Malcolm made them, he crosswired them to hell and back just because he could, and he'd only ever been playing. For practise. Fun. Learning by doing; it was his job, after all, couldn't take them apart if he didn't know how they went together, but just having that knowledge felt like blood on his hands now, and they wouldn't come clean...

 _No._

Probably have to jack the bus up to be able get at the device, have room to work, and see what you were doing. But it might not be worth the risk, especially if the jack wasn't smooth. Peroxyacetone was so volatile, you could set it off by bumping it. You could set it off by thinking about it too hard.

“Lieutenant?”

Yes, if the area could be safely evacuated, controlled explosion would be best. Stand back and watch it go sky high. Marks out of ten. Niskaan streets were so narrow, that was the problem, it would be hard to avoid structural damage to surrounding buildings. Still, better than structural damage to civilians. Or armoury officers, for that matter.

“Lieutenant Reed? Can you hear me?” A snapping sound in front of his face. Clicked fingers. Malcolm shook his head in annoyance. Busy. Couldn't leave the job undone.

“Can you say something to me?”

Besides, being talked to instead of manhandled was a suspicious change of pace, and one Malcolm wasn't sure he wanted anything to do with. A snap again. A little shake. Malcolm blinked watery eyes.

“What?” he asked. But that seemed to be enough for now. The guard straightened up. “Time to wake up,” he said.

“I wasn't asleep,” Malcolm told him. Or told his shoes, since that was the height he was at. It seemed important to make this clear; tauntingly cruel to talk of him to sleep otherwise. His wakefulness had become like a physical thing that he carried around with him.

His hands were freed, and he was pulled up into a sitting position. The world didn't stop moving when he did.

“Come on now,” the guard said, but Malcolm wasn't clear on how, or where to. He looked away, and the rest of him almost followed. A strong hand landed on his shoulder, holding him upright.

“I told you he was out of it,” the guard said. He seemed to be addressing someone else. There was movement at the open door; a figure standing there. Malcolm couldn't see. The light poked him bluntly in the eyes when he tried to focus.

“Well, sort him out,” the blur at the door said. “We haven't got much time.”

It was Fiest. His voice was an unmistakable boot to Malcolm's belly. He wanted to react, but his body didn't seem to be attached. “Time for what?” he asked instead, or thought he did, but they kept on talking over him.

“Get the medic to give him another shot,” Fiest was saying.

“You think so? It might finish him off. Look at him now.”

“He's only like that because it's wearing off.”

“I'm not so sure.” The guard gave Malcolm a doubtful shake. It made him feel so dizzy he actually felt better when it stopped just by comparison.

“I agree with him,” Malcolm ventured, in case it mattered.

“I don't care what you think,” Fiest told him. At least he'd made himself heard that time. Fiest had a bandage across his nose, and his voice had a slightly nasal quality. Malcolm had to remind himself that this was his fault.

“I'll talk to the medic,” Fiest said, looking at Malcolm, but addressing the guard. “Meanwhile, stick his head in a bucket of water or something.”

Turned out his body was attached after all, but it didn't do him much good; he only ended up on the floor again, with the guard on his back.

“Oh come on, now,” Fiest said, his tone reproachful. “I didn't mean it. Let him up, he's okay,” he told the guard. “Come on, Malcolm. I only want to know you're alright.”

This sounded deeply implausible. The guard stepped back and Malcolm propped himself up on his knees. Finding himself untouched and unrestrained, he felt unsure where to put himself.

“Is this some kind of good cop, bad cop thing?” Malcolm asked. It felt like a very long sentence, stumbling over his tongue. He was unclear by the end of it if he'd even got all the words in the right order. Especially when Fiest's response was, “Good bad what?”

He knelt in front of Malcolm and peered at his face. “Oh dear,” he said at length. “This is your fault, you know that, right? I just don't like being told lies. Or hit in the nose. You make my job very difficult.”

“Bollocks,” Malcolm told him. Relative freedom was going to his head. The guard took a step towards him, but Fiest raised a hand to stop him.

“I'm going to assume that means you're very sorry, and will try to be more helpful next time,” he said. “I'm still deciding whether to press charges for assault. You might want to remember that, if you find yourself in a position to not piss me off later.” He stood.

“Let him have something to eat, clean up a bit,” he said to the guard. “He'll be fine.”

The guard didn't look convinced. Malcolm had to side with him again.

Nausea loomed over him when they gave him food, and he couldn't swallow much. They brought him clean clothes, and he had to change very slowly, because dizziness engulfed him if he moved too fast. His thoughts were caught on a slow looping replay. He was clinging to the edge of sleep, unable to let go.

The medic gave him a drink of something which soothed his throat a little, and pushed more needles into him. A shot that might actually have been an analgesic, since it muffled his pounding head a little, and then something else which made him feel high as a kite for about a minute, then levelled him out to an odd balance of spacey and hyper-alert.

Everyone seemed to want to talk to him now too; the medic, the guards, and not even about dead Niskaans. They asked him how he was, how he was feeling, if he could answer them, again and again, trying to goad responses from him, their questioning no less persistent for turning mundane.

Eventually, they seemed to be either satisfied or bored with him. He was taken to a small white room, and parked in a chair pushed sideways against the wall. His hands were cuffed to a bracket at his shoulder height, his arms pulled across his body, and then he was left alone again. He leaned his cheek against the back of his secured hands. The cuts on his palms were throbbing dully in time with his heartbeat. Itching. His emotions felt muted.

He went back to his bus bomb, and beyond. Mocking up devices in his head now. Easy to do. Too easy. He was filled with a guilty, superstitious dread that he was doing real harm, making people unsafe, by leaving bombs live in his mind. He had to go back and unpick every imagined wire.

“Malcolm?”

He didn't want to come back to the room, but something in the voice tugged at him, recalled him; the recognition that it wasn't Fiest, who put a foreign stress on the syllables in his name. There were people in the room with him. Too many people. Not enough air for all of them. And at the front of the group, speaking his name, stepping towards him, was Captain Archer.

It took an entire long second of stupid staring before this even sunk in.

“Sir!” Malcolm burst out. For a moment, his reaction teetered on a knife edge. He didn’t know what he might do; if he might start to struggle, laugh, cry. His reflexes had run out of ways to react, and were throwing random suggestions at him.

Archer knelt beside him, and placed a hand on Malcolm's knee and another on his shoulder. His presence, his determination, and the intensity of his gaze were such that Malcolm wanted to recoil. The chair and the cuffs prevented him. He swallowed hard instead.

“Sir,” he said again, not quite sure where he was going with it. Archer lifted his hand from Malcolm's shoulder, raised it as though he might touch Malcolm's face.

“Those are new bruises,” he said.

“Reasonable force to subdue a violent prisoner,” Fiest spoke from behind Archer. Rasak was there too, and it was to him that Archer looked at Fiest's words, as though the advocate could confirm or deny them. Rasak said nothing, though he inclined his head slightly in greeting when Malcolm caught his eye. The detail of his movement held Malcolm's attention for too long a time. By the time he'd shaken himself free, the moment to respond had passed.

The whole room, in fact, seemed to be a beat of time ahead of him. Archer seemed to have drawn some conclusion from staring at Malcolm's face, and was half-turning, with purpose, to address Fiest.

“What's the matter with him?” Archer demanded.

“The medic says he's picked up a virus,” Fiest told him. “He's being taken care of.”

“That true?” Archer asked Malcolm. His grip tightened on Malcolm’s knee, and that, and his proximity, was triggering a yammering fight-flight reflex in Malcolm's brain. It was taking some considerable conscious effort not to kick himself free.

“I'm still considering whether to press assault charges,” Fiest put in, with a pointed look at Malcolm over Archer's head.

“If charges are pressed,” Rasak spoke up from the sidelines, “I'll request an independent investigation into the incident.” The advocate's tone was calm and even; the look Fiest gave him was less so.

“As would be your right,” he said, managing to mostly conceal a grudging note from his voice.

“Malcolm?” Archer prompted. “Is that true?” The captain's eyes were taking him apart.

 _True?_ Malcolm was stumped. Utterly lost in the tracks of the conversation, and anyway, how best to answer seemed to depend on the outcome. Who held the power over him here, Archer or Fiest? Except no, no, it was wrong of him to go reaching for the best lie before the real truth – that kind of expedient thinking belonged to another life. He couldn't be that liar any more, he wasn't that person, not a covert agent or a scared little boy. Tell the truth, trust his captain. That was who he was.

 _Except that part's the real lie._

It occurred to Malcolm that if he did tell Archer the truth, about what they’d done to him, Archer would know how scared he must have been; he’d know he must have panicked, screamed. Suddenly, the weight of Archer's scrutiny was as suffocating as having a damp rag forced between his teeth. He didn't have enough breath left to answer.

But he was behind again; by that point, Archer had stopped expecting him to.

“What have you done to him?” he was demanding of Fiest. His very tone was alarming to Malcolm, made him quail inside, as though it were directed at him.

Fiest met Archer's gaze with apparent unconcern. “He assaulted me. He required restraining. He won't cooperate. He fights us. He does this to himself, Captain.”

“ _Why_ did he assault you? Why does he fight? He's a Starfleet officer, not a common criminal. Premier Gruun assured us he would not be mistreated.” Archer stood to face him. He and Fiest were as tall as each other, and Fiest met his anger without backing down.

“Starfleet gets no special rights here,” Fiest said. “I treat him just as I would treat a Niskaan suspect.”

“And how well do you respect their rights?” Archer snarled.

“I have great respect for the rights of Niskaans,” Fiest said, his tone smooth. “And most of all, for their right to not be murdered in the street. You are so intent on the rights of your man, you forget why he's even here. A dead Niskaan is not a trivial matter to me, Captain.”

“And nor is it to us,” Archer gave back. “But that doesn't justify this. We'd cooperate, if you'd let us. We want answers, we want what's best for your planet, just as much as you do.”

Fiest was motionless before him; his voice, when he spoke, was even smoother. “With respect, Captain Archer, you are outsiders here. Our interests are not your interests. Our pain is not your pain. I buried my daughter two years ago, and I saw no aliens weeping for her rights at her funeral.”

Silence closed its fist around the room. It was Rasak who broke it.

“This is unhelpful,” he spoke up. “Our concern is with the case at hand. Agent Fiest, I know you're busy. We have no wish to intrude further on your time. Perhaps you would allow the captain and I a moment with Lieutenant Reed.”

Fiest broke eye contact with Archer to redirect on Rasak, but faced with the advocate's coolness, he seemed to lose his fire very quickly.

“I can't leave civilians alone with a violent prisoner,” he said, but his pose was suddenly shifty. His pronouncement about his daughter had spoiled the air.

“He's restrained,” Rasak pointed out. Fiest gave Malcolm a nasty look as though this were his own fault, but the pause, as he scrambled for a counter-point, drew out too long.

“I'll send a guard up,” he said, suddenly decisive. “You can't visit for long. As you say, we're busy. And your lieutenant needs to get his rest. Advocate.” He dipped his head to Rasak.

He left without acknowledging Archer again.

“What happened?” Malcolm asked, once the door had closed. Archer and Rasak both turned and looked at him like he'd grown an extra head. Archer looked puzzled at the question, but Rasak caught his meaning.

“Since Agent Fiest brought it up, it is a matter of public record,” Rasak said. “You might know yourself if you'd looked in the city archives. Agent Fiest's daughter was killed at a demonstration in the city centre. A bomb concealed in a trash can.”

On a demonstration. Not a child then. A young woman. A teenager, maybe. Fiest wasn't that old himself. Litter blowing, an overturned bin. Bloodsplatters marking the brickwork. Empty streets. Those empty hours, after her parents got the news.

 _This is all my fault._ The knowledge poured over him like cold water. He wanted to claw himself away, to escape, but there was nowhere he could go where this wouldn't come with him. _This is my fault, all my fault, I did this._ All those wires left unpicked. All those times he'd practised. Marks out of ten. All blood on his hands. He was up to his neck in it. Where had he been two years ago? On Enterprise. Going about his business, not even knowing, not even caring...

“I didn't know,” he said.

“Why would you know?” Archer was kneeling beside him again. Malcolm jumped at finding him there. He drew himself sideways into the wall.

“Malcolm?” Archer said. “Talk to me.”

But he couldn't. He'd have to shout to make his pain heard on this empty planet. Shout above everyone else, their silence, their grief, their dread. No one came to save them. No one had fought for them. They'd just buried their dead, and now they wouldn't even blame each other.

Archer was still talking, and Rasak too, leaning closer in, but Malcolm wasn't hearing.

“I don't know,” he said to their faces. Then turned away to look at the white wall. Felt like he was taking a bullet. Sliding down. A bloody smear on a pale surface. Closed his eyes.

When he tuned back in, Archer's hand was on his knee again. Shaking him. Soft, but urgent. Malcolm opened his eyes and his mouth to say _ow._

“Look, Malcolm, _look_ ,” Archer was saying. Malcolm looked, with effort. “Rasak's stepped outside. He'd given us a moment. Malcolm? You need to tell me what's going on, and quickly. Come on. Talk to me. I talked to Harris.”

That hooked his attention.

“You talked to –?” Archer was nodding at him, encouraging. “Did he –?”

“Tell me what's going on here, Malcolm? _Malcolm_.” His name, repeated so often, was starting to sound meaningless. “Help me out here, come on. Have you ever been here before? On Niskaa before?”

Malcolm's tongue was bone dry. “No,” he said. “No, I haven't.”

“Then what? Did you know this Eska?”

“Sir, Eska, I – I didn't kill him. I really didn't.” The words were out, and Archer frowning at him, before Malcolm realised this was a clear lie. “No, I mean, I did, _I did_ , but I didn't mean to.”

“Then you're innocent, right? Malcolm, I can help you here, but you need to talk to me. Do you know what Fiest's going to try and pull in court? Does he think you killed him?”

“He...” This was harder to answer. He wasn't seeing Fiest in his mind any more, not his smirking sarcastic tormentor, but a father in a house full of empty rooms. Blood colouring his lilac eyes. His daughter's eyes. “I don't think so. He thinks... Eska had explosives smuggled from off-world, a supplier, he thinks –” _He thinks I killed his daughter. Not myself, but that I am one of those people. I am one of the kind of people who killed his daughter. And not even a Niskaan who believed in a cause. Just someone who didn't care._

“And what about the Section? Harris. How are they involved?” Archer's hand was heavy on Malcolm's knee; he was squeezing, shaking again, trying to keep his attention. His eyes were so insistent, expectant of an answer. In a rush of sense memory, Malcolm recalled how he'd disliked the captain at first, so keen to be friends, cross boundaries, how he couldn't leave any stone unturned once it had come to his attention. Now Malcolm only wanted to be the man Archer thought he was.

“I...” He swallowed. “I don't think I can, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I don't think I can.”

He was in over his head. Compromised. He couldn't stand the weight of Archer's disappointment. He knew already the way the captain's face would fall, then set in stone, how Archer’s eyes would darken, how he'd shut Malcolm down.

“Are they threatening you with something?” Archer pushed. “Don't bullshit me, Malcolm. You look like hell, you're hardly in the room. They won't get away with it.”

“No. No, sir, it's not that...”

“Well, then, what? Why can't you tell me?”

“I'm sorry, sir.” He set his jaw. Denial had something like the comfort of home for him now. Let him go. Let Archer go, leave the planet, let him wonder forever what the hell happened here. Let Malcolm be replaced, some other officer on the bridge, someone confiding and real, who was fast friends with the crew.   
Maybe some part of the captain would even hold onto the belief that Malcolm Reed had been a good man.

“Don't be sorry, _tell me_. Dammit, Malcolm.” The edge in Archer's voice was like a slap in the face. Malcolm closed his eyes.

“Sir,” he said. But nothing else. Archer shook him again.

“Malcolm,” he said. His tone grim. “Harris already told me everything. He told me what you've done.”

 _Oh._ That was that then. Malcolm let his head fall against the wall. There seemed little point in ever raising it again. After the incident at Qu'vat, being thrown in the brig, all the rumours, he'd caught suspicious looks from people who thought his back was turned for weeks. And now everyone would know. Trip would know. His parents would know.

He couldn't spare himself. He had to see Archer's face, know the worst of what he thought of him. He looked. And looked. And looked again.

“He didn't tell you,” Malcolm said. A bubble of hysterical laughter stuck in his throat. Such an old trap, the oldest, and he'd walked right in. “Sir,” he said. “That's really sneaky.”

“Look who's talking. I thought you were the one person who would give me a straight answer here. What have you done, Malcolm?” Archer's voice hardened; made the question an order. “Lieutenant? Answer me.”

No holding onto hope then. Slim chance anyway. More than he deserved. Malcolm fixed Archer in the eye. Forced the words out past the lump in his throat.

“I can't tell you, sir. It's classified.”

Archer's face was a mask. “I don't think you know what you're saying,” he said.

“I know what I'm saying, sir.” Malcolm's voice could barely break a whisper.

Archer's hand tightened on his knee for a second, then he withdrew it.

“Does Fiest have any proof?” he asked. This was a different question from _did you do it?_ and they both knew it.

“No,” Malcolm said, anyway.

“I don't know what the hell is happening here,” Archer told him through a clenched jaw. “But we're going to get you out of here. And you're going to get well. And then you're going explain this to me, and you're going to answer every question I put to you, and if I'm not completely satisfied by the end of that conversation, you and I are going to have a serious problem. Do you understand?”

Drained of all strength, Malcolm just nodded. He did understand. More than Archer did. But that was the captain; wouldn't leave a stone unturned. Archer had never understood that silence had its virtues, or that some things just weren't worth saving. Exhaustion washed over him like a wave, pulling him under. He couldn't engage again, and just stared at a spot on the wall, letting voices move around him, rise and fall, as Rasak returned, and the guard arrived, and then all three of them left him.

Malcolm made a decision. Realised, once he'd made it, that he'd known it would come to this hours ago.

He rested his head on his hands and dozed, mercifully dreamless, until the guard returned to get him. It was the nightmare he woke up to; a room full of ghosts, and blood up the walls. He hid his face until the guard uncuffed his hands and forced them down.

“Is Fiest here?” Malcolm asked him, as he was hauled to his feet, too fast. Only the guard's grip kept him upright.

“He's busy,” the guard told him, mistaking his stumbling for a struggle, and jerking on his arm. “He doesn't have time to listen to you complain.”

“You don't understand.” Malcolm fought for his balance; finally managed to get his feet back under him. “I don't want to complain. I want to confess.”


	5. Chapter 5

The Niskaan day was fading to dusk when Archer and Rasak stepped outside the holding facility. Archer came to a halt on the sidewalk and looked up to the sky, instinctively looking for a satellite that might be Enterprise.

Stars were showing through the gaps in the clouds. The wide spaces wanted to take him away. It was tempting for a moment to let them, but he couldn't let himself lose momentum. He had to channel his anger, his disappointment, and make them work for him. Problem was, he wasn't sure right now who all that should be rightly directed at. Gruun. Fiest. Malcolm. Himself, for not fixing this already. Harris, for already knowing how Malcolm would deny him.

He looked sideways at Rasak. The advocate had stopped beside him, and was looking at the sky too. Archer found the man hard to read, but his mimicry of Archer's pose felt companionable, at least.

“I need to get him out of there,” Archer said. The direct appeal helped him ground himself. “You saw the state of him. Gruun’s going to deny that he’s being mistreated. Will you back me up?”

Lighting was starting to come on up and down the narrow street, throwing the geometry of the city into sharp relief. Rasak looked at him with his head on one side, as though he were considering Archer as an interesting specimen. Archer suddenly found his inhumanly coloured eyes jarring. He felt misplaced on this planet, powerless, and lost under alien stars. _Culture shock,_ he told himself, stamping down on his disquiet. _It happens._

“I thought Lieutenant Reed looked unwell when I saw him yesterday,” Rasak told him. “He told me he was receiving medical care. His condition has declined very rapidly since then. I agree it's a cause for concern.”

Archer found he had been bracing himself to defend his point, and let out a breath in relief.

“Did Lieutenant Reed give you any further information while I was out of the room?” Rasak asked.

Archer felt a spot of rain. “No,” he said grimly. “No, he didn't.”

“I'll lodge an objection,” Rasak said. “Request investigation. I imagine you are hoping your Starfleet's influence will circumvent some bureaucracy.” He seemed about to say more, but then his attention was caught by something up the street. He glanced around, and then back to Archer. “We shouldn't be standing around discussing this here.” he said. “It's a short walk to my office, if we cut through the square.”

Archer followed his gaze, but couldn't pinpoint what Rasak had been looking at. There weren't many people about, and those few that were, were hurrying, heads down, stepping out into the road to give him and Rasak a wide berth, not looking directly at either of them.

 _Malcolm killed a man on a street like this five days ago._ The thought was eerie; made Archer want to hustle with his head low too.

“It would be helpful to my case if Lieutenant Reed would make an allegation of mistreatment,” Rasak told him, as Archer fell into step beside him. “Because Fiest will deny it, and in my experience, it's easy to get stuck in a deadlock where it's my word against his, if the prisoner can't testify.”

Can't, or won't. It had been a cheap shot, telling Malcolm that Harris had already given him away, and Archer had felt cheap doing it. Whatever their future, Malcolm would never forget his mistrust now. _But dammit, that's not my fault. I was all ready to listen to him. I've been trusting him for years. He's already on his second chance._

“He didn't say anything,” Archer said. “But you saw him yourself. He's not exactly a sparkling conversationalist at the moment.”

Malcolm's condition had been shocking, in fact, and Archer wanted badly to grasp at this, to cling to it, to use it to dismiss everything Malcolm had said, or not said. But he couldn't shake the way Malcolm had looked when he'd pulled out his cheap shot. Archer might not have known what he'd meant by _what you've done_ , but Malcolm had known, alright. Harris's hard truths were holding so far.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind. Had to stay in the here and now, or he'd be chasing his own tail for hours. He glanced around himself, at the darkening streets, the stretching shadows, caught by an objectless sense of unease. The hair on the back of his neck was prickling.

“Well,” Rasak was saying. “Your Starfleet's influence may break that deadlock, if we find ourselves there.”

He sounded matter-of-fact enough, but Archer was reminded of Fiest's earlier hostility.

“I'm just using all the channels I have to look out for my man,” he said. “I already get Fiest has a problem with that. Do you?”

Another Niskaan was walking towards them, eyes down. They both watched her approach, and turned to watch her hurry past. When she was a distance away, Archer added, slightly plaintively, “If I could take my officer and get out of your hair right now, I would, believe me.”

Rasak smiled at that, but his smile had a sad note. “Agent Fiest,” he said, “is a man of strong principles, in that it is genuinely a matter of principle to him to give Lieutenant Reed no preferential treatment just because he has influential friends.”

“Influential is the last thing I've been feeling since I came to Niskaa,” Archer told him. Rasak smiled again, but persisted.

“Even so,” he said. “Usually when I have to deal with the way Fiest treats his suspects, I don't have interplanetary diplomacy as an option to fall back on. Agent Fiest and I disagree on a great deal, but I think perhaps we both feel that if anything untoward has happened here, it will be Niskaa which ends up paying the price.”

Archer was silent a moment, thinking of Harris. The noises of the city carried around them; their own footfalls, distant traffic. The narrow street opened up ahead of them into a cobbled square, and Archer heard running water, saw a structure like a fountain, still half-obscured by the buildings around them.

Rasak, misreading his silence, spoke again.

“I don't say this to blame you,” he said. “Only so you understand. I don't begrudge your officer his help at all. It's just we won't be flying away when all this is done.”

“I'm sorry,” Archer said to him. “You guys didn't need this mess on your hands.”

They were approaching the end of the street now. Suddenly, Rasak checked his stride, and put his hand on Archer's arm. Archer could detect no change in their surroundings. He opened his mouth to ask why.

The night tore itself apart.

A boom, and a rush of hot wind came roaring towards them. Archer dived for cover, flinging his arms up in front of his face, misjudged the distance to the wall and collided with it hard. He slid down into a crouch, fumbled blindly, found Rasak beside him. They clutched at each other, huddled together, pressed into the wall, heat on their skin, debris clattering around them, the explosion echoing in their ears and up and down the narrow street.

The sound rolled away, and the smoke rolled in. Archer tried to crane his head, to look without rising, but the air was thick and foul tasting and it made his eyes stream. He pressed a hand over his mouth, suppressing his coughs. Rasak was tugging at him, and they crept together, back along the wall, until they were out of the range of the fumes.

When they could, they helped each other up, and leaned gasping against the wall. The explosion had come from the open square, but Archer could see nothing up that way now but black smoke and steam. Dirt was clinging to him, and his ears were ringing, but he was standing, and breathing, and though his whole body had been wrenched with the shock, nothing urgent seemed to hurt.

When he had the breath, Rasak said something short in Niskaan that didn't translate.

“Yeah,” Archer exhaled. “Are you okay?”

But Rasak's answer was cut off before it began by the sound of pounding feet. A figure burst out of the smoke before them, running hard. Archer's first instinct was to move out of the way, let them pass, thinking it was someone running from the blast, but Rasak's grip tightened urgently on his arm, and Archer saw the figure was masked, fabric wound around his face, showing only a strip of skin around the eyes.

In the same instant, the runner spotted them, checked hard, changed direction, and shot off down a side street.

“Hey!” Rasak shouted. “Wait!”

Archer didn't waste his breath, but set off in pursuit. The figure took one glance back over his shoulder, and then went, his arms pistoning, the slap of his feet echoing in the ruptured night. He was fast, and his headstart was good, and it was all Archer could do to keep him in sight. The runner took corner after corner, the streets back here a maze of intersecting alleys, keeping against the walls, darting between shadows, and though Archer pushed himself, ignoring the drag in his lungs, he fell further and further behind – until the runner took one final turn, and Archer, skidding after him, saw with a flash of triumph that he'd run into a dead end.

Archer stopped at the entrance to the blind alley, trying to make himself as big as he could, to block it with his presence. The figure pulled to a halt, turned to face him, took an uncertain step backwards, and then launched, trying to dodge his way back past. Archer tackled him, hurling himself without finesse, counting on his weight to take the man down, but as he connected, the figure grabbed back, planted a knee in Archer's stomach, and flipped him neatly all the way over onto the hard ground.

Archer grabbed blindly as he went, caught a handful of clothes, and dragged the man down on top of him. He landed in a flurry of elbows and blows, the runner battering at him with gloved fists. Archer clung on grimly, but the fabric started to slide through his fingers. In desperation, he let go and drove his fist upwards as hard as he could into the masked face. He connected with the man's nose, was rewarded with a grunt of pain, and a respite, as the man pulled back out of range, his hands raised. Archer rolled to his knees and grabbed again, but the figure was faster. He planted a well-placed boot hard in Archer's stomach, and then was gone from under his grasp.

Rasak, in pursuit, arrived at the mouth of the alley at the same time as the runner did. For a moment, the two were locked eye to eye in a stand-off, but then the runner feinted one way and then darted the other as Rasak lunged for him. The advocate missed, and the runner shot off into the night.

Archer hauled himself to his feet, winded. He exchanged a look with Rasak, and the two of them made a token effort at jogging after, but they quickly came to a crossroads in the alley with no way to tell which way the runner had gone.

Archer pulled up, panting, and leaned against the wall. The smoky air was still rough in his lungs, and he doubled over for a moment to catch his breath.

“Are you hurt?” Rasak asked him.

Archer did a quick inventory of himself. He had blood on his knuckles, but couldn't see where it had come from. He wiped it on the leg of his uniform, and shook his head.

They made their way back along the street to the site of the blast. Smoke and dust still lingered, but the air was clearing, and they were able to walk right up to the open square. Where the fountain had stood only minutes before, the ground was gaping, pipes and metal work twisted, water gushing unchecked over the cobbles.

“This is White River Square,” Rasak told him, as though the name ought to mean something to Archer. It didn't. Seeing this, Rasak elaborated. “That fountain is a memorial. Was a memorial.”

“Do you think anyone was here? I didn't see anyone.” Archer scanned the wreckage, bile rising to his throat at the thought that he wouldn't be seeing a whole person, if one had been here.

“I didn't see anyone. Except –” Rasak gestured back behind them. Archer exhaled in frustration. The running man had been dressed in nondescript, dark-coloured clothes, his hands gloved, his face covered. They had no way to identify him again now they'd lost him.

A few pockets of people, drawn by the noise, had emerged from the side streets into the edge of the square, talking in low voices, hailing friends with relief. Local police arrived only moments later, and started shepherding people away, calling for the square to be cleared in ringing tones.

One of them greeted Rasak by name, and he went to speak to her, describing their encounter with the man in the alley. Archer took a few steps past them, deeper into the square. Water was still spewing from the hole in the ground, forming puddles. He stepped through one carefully, and muddy water washed inches deep over his boots.

“Sir,” a voice from behind him called. “You have to step away. We need to clear the area.”

Archer was about to move to comply when he noticed something. A black object, resting on an island of rubble that raised it above the water level. He caught the eye of the officer who'd spoken to him, and pointed at it.

“Looks like a radio or something,” he said. The word rang a bell in his mind. In court, days earlier. The device Eska had planted on that bus had been radio detonated. The officer picked his way between the puddles, and peered at the item without touching it.

“A detonator?” Archer suggested.

The officer straightened up, and looked at him properly, did a little double-take and then tried to conceal it. Archer was reminded again that he was an alien here, an interloper.

“My ship is in orbit,” he said, as the officer shook a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and picked the device up with it. “Enterprise. We have technology, powerful scanners. We'd be happy to assist. There might be fingerprints, DNA...”

“We have that technology ourselves, sir,” the officer said. “Please, this is a crime scene. You'll have to move away.”

Rasak was beckoning to him by then, so Archer complied. Rasak introduced him to the officer he was speaking to, and, as she walked with them a distance away from the square, Archer related his own version of their encounter as best as he could.

“Was there anything else about the man?” she asked when he was done. They'd stopped between tall buildings again, under a streetlight. “Anything else about his appearance? Did anything strike you as unusual?”

Rasak was looking at him with expectation, and Archer gathered from the tenor of the question that she was looking for something specific. He racked his brains, but could come up with nothing. Fat raindrops started to fall around them. Archer glanced up at the clouds, but neither Niskaan took any notice.

“No,” Archer said. “I told you, he was masked. I couldn't really see him, except for his eyes.”

“And what about his eyes?”

Archer thought back. Replayed the chase and the fight in his mind, the pounding of feet, the thump of fists, fabric slipping between his fingers, but all he'd seen of the man was a strip of skin, eyes flashing in the low streetlights. Couldn't even say what colour they'd been, except...

Light dawned.

“Dark eyes. He had dark eyes.”

Rasak and the officer exchanged a meaningful look.

“Thank you, Captain,” the officer said. “I trust you're agreeable for us to contact you if we have further questions?”

Archer nodded compliance, and the officer left them, heading back towards the square. Archer looked at Rasak.

“I haven't seen a Niskaan with dark eyes since we arrived here. Does that mean what I think it means?”

“An alien,” Rasak said. Standing in the rainstreaked streetlights, he looked spooked.

“But why?” Archer asked.

“I don't know why. Off-worlders have no reason, no business interfering here.”

Rasak's voice had a note of angry reproach, and though Archer knew it wasn’t directed at him, he felt a pang of second hand guilt. Hadn't interfering been exactly what he'd invited Harris to do? Would he sanction this kind of thing, on behalf of the men and women of Starfleet, if it suited him to do so? Behind the scenes, quietly keeping consciences clean. Archer thought of Malcolm, staring at a white wall in a cell, not two hundred yards from this spot. _How clean is your conscience, Lieutenant?_

The rain was coming down harder, and the smell of wet brickwork mingled with the lingering traces of the bomb –smoke, burnt materials, turned over earth.

 _And how clean is mine?_

Archer wiped raindrops from his face. Suddenly he didn't want to look Rasak in the eye.

* * *

Malcolm's first attempt at confessing had been mostly unsuccessful. He didn't even remember much of it after. All his senses had been abandoning ship. Even Fiest had recognised he was spent, and had quickly called a halt to their discussion. He sent Malcolm back to his cell to sleep for a couple of hours. They even let him have his mattress back. Positive reinforcement.

When Malcolm woke up, there was something wrong with him. He could see the stars. It was as though the lid of his cell had been peeled back, and the sky had too, exposing him to the vacuum. And yet – the roof was still there, and the bright humming room, somehow, in the corner of his eye. He could both see and not see. His reality had dislocated.

Then he started to cough, and it brought him crashing back down. Pinned flat to the mattress by his own aches and pains. His first thought was of Archer, so immediate and vivid that for a moment he thought the captain was in the room with him. The wave of desolation he felt when he found himself alone almost swept him off into space again. He tried to take himself in hand – told himself to grow up, that he was being pathetic, but he was too weak even to sting himself that badly.

His cuffs had been passed around the leg of the bed while he slept, and when Fiest came back to talk to him again – bringing a medic and another wake-up shot – he didn't release him. The effect of the shot was miserable, Malcolm's own metabolism beating the crap out of him, but at least it kept the stars away. He couldn't stay lying down, so he slid off the bed and knelt beside it. Fiest sat on the floor beside him, putting himself at Malcolm's eye level in a twisted parody of companionship.

At first, Malcolm could more or less keep up with him, and he ignored the pangs in his belly that hit when he thought about Enterprise. This was for the best. Putting himself out of harm's way again.

So he agreed with Fiest that he had been lying. That he had known Eska. He admitted that Eska had spoken to him. Funny, he’d almost convinced himself that it wasn’t true. When he thought back on the fight now, he saw it flickering and soundless, like an old silent film. He had to paste the dialogue back over.

“What did Eska say?” Fiest asked him.

“He said... fancy seeing you here.” In fact, he hadn't, but it seemed apt enough.

“And how did you know him?” Fiest pitched his voice perfectly; it lost all its threat as long as he was getting what he wanted.

But creative thought was like trying to climb a ladder without any rungs. Malcolm waited, let Fiest prompt him. Supplying arms, Fiest suggested. Smuggling explosives, yes. Peroxyacetone, yes. While he talked, Malcolm turned his wrists restlessly, relentlessly in his cuffs, unconsciously at first, and by the time he noticed, he found he couldn't stop. The movement was holding something at bay, warding off some evil, keeping him from slipping, falling, silencing the part of his brain that otherwise might scream. He felt so afraid of something that he couldn't even name.

Fiest asked questions then like _where_ and _when_ , and Malcolm waited again until he obligingly started naming places Malcolm had never heard of, suggesting times Malcolm couldn't possibly have been there. Malcolm said _yes_ to each one. Turned his hands like fish in a current, never still.

And then Fiest asked, “Why?”

And that was the flaw in the plan. Malcolm felt himself sink a little. He had never had a _why_ , really, he'd just had a job to do. Just like Fiest did.

“Or perhaps more aptly, on whose orders?” Fiest pried.

“No one's orders.” Malcolm pushed the words away from himself.

“So, why? Are you just a bad man?” Fiest's tone was a gentle mockery. “I don't believe in monsters, Malcolm. People always think they have a reason.”

Malcolm raised his eyes, met Fiest's. Bright spots of colour in the bleak, white room. Who'd brought him the news about his daughter, Malcolm wondered, and what had he said to them? Odd that he should even care about reasons, but maybe it was worse to care, worse to try and understand, than to blame it on some faceless evil. Fiest didn’t seem like the kind of man who would spare himself blows. _That's something else you have in common,_ Malcolm told himself, but he couldn't make himself feel kinship; he only felt sick.

“You know,” Fiest said, “Half of those places you just agreed you've been to don't even exist. You're not telling me anything real here.” He edged closer, spoke lower. “I know you've lied to me from the start. I'm not a monster either. I just want the truth from you.”

Malcolm found his muscles had gone rigid, locked. He couldn't move his hands now. Horror crawled over his skin.

“I know you're tired. I know you're hurting.” Fiest's tone was poisonously soft. “If you help me, I'll help you.”

Malcolm couldn't speak. He couldn't draw breath. Fiest waited for him, a picture of patience for almost an entire minute, then he reached, and caught Malcolm by the chin. Made him bring his head up and look him in the eye. Malcolm jerked at his touch, and the movement broke his rictus, but Fiest's gaze impaled him in turn.

“See, to me,” Fiest told him with a sigh, “this is not so much a confession as a new and creative way to be unhelpful.”

Then he made good his threat about sticking Malcolm's head in a bucket of water.

Malcolm didn't speak to him again.

* * *

Rasak came to see him too, some time after. Malcolm was having problems with the stars again, running between his fingers like sand. He was gripped by a sense of urgency; late for _something_ , losing time. His hands were cuffed in front of him now, and he held them out to the Rasak, palms up, a weak effort at articulating his problem. Rasak looked slightly nonplussed, and told him, “Good morning,” demolishing entire hours.

“Where's the captain?” Malcolm couldn't help asking, though he could think of no answer that wouldn't damn him. He wanted Archer both here and gone, like the stars.

“Back on your Enterprise.” Rasak told him. “Wisest for aliens to keep off the streets last night. He'll be back today. He's worried about you.”

There was nothing that could be said to that, so Malcolm didn't. Rasak settled beside him on the bunk.

“I hear you confessed,” he said, conversationally. “Why was that?”

Obviously, he wasn't very bright.

“Why do people usually confess?” Malcolm said. It hurt him to speak, but it hurt to be silent too, and, with time running out, he found he wanted to reach out, to catch hold of something solid.

“Depends on the person.” Rasak looked at him closely. “Your hair is wet,” he observed.

Malcolm let his eyes wander.

“I intend to argue that your confession is inadmissible,” Rasak said. “Since it was obtained under duress. How do you feel about that?”

Malcolm didn't feel anything, particularly, except a dull thud of irony. He looked at Rasak's fingers, rough, farm-kid fingers, folded neatly in his lap. Lost himself for a moment on the boardwalks; the endless seas of grass. Twilight skies and the wind whispered.

“It would help me enormously if you would confirm you are being mistreated. If you are afraid of repercussions –”

“I am not afraid,” Malcolm interrupted him. He looked away, into the room again.

“Then your behaviour makes no sense. And nor does your confession.” Rasak watched him for a moment. “I would advise you not to tell Fiest anything else. If you genuinely wish to confess, I suggest you do so to me. I can't offer you any repercussions, but I can listen.”

This felt like a challenge, and something contrary in Malcolm's nature almost made him rise to it, but he couldn't sustain the effort. Words died on his tongue. It was easier with Fiest, who hated him anyway; who _wanted_ to hate him, who already had a box to put him in. Rasak was ridiculous by contrast, hiding himself behind reason where Fiest would grab it by the throat.

“When you were a boy,” Malcolm asked, without knowing he was going to, “did you play out in the grass?” Running, like kids ran, with his weight flung forward and his arms flailing. A misplaced foot could rip the ground apart.

“Dangerous, where I come from,” Rasak said. He spoke carefully, as though Malcolm might go off himself.

“I know,” Malcolm said. “That's what I mean.” But he couldn't explain. The wind was on his skin. Not rough, like a sea wind, but teasing and cool.

“Did they tell you there was an explosion in Chibnia last night?” Rasak asked.

Malcolm's head snapped up. His breath caught. Panic threw itself at him.

“Explosion?”

“In White River Square. Do you know it?”

Close to here. Close enough to make his skin prickle.

“Was anyone –?”

“No, no one was hurt. The square was empty at the time. Though the fountain was destroyed.”

“Who did it?” Malcolm asked. He ought to know, or be able to work it out, if he recalled his Niskaan history. The memorial fountain. A Separatist memorial. Separatists like Eska. Not them, then. The other side.

“Why, do you want to confess to that too?” Rasak asked.

 _Why not?_ Malcolm started to laugh. It burst the bubble of tension in his chest, and he had a little trouble stopping. Rasak waited politely for him to finish, and then said;

“You have a rather good alibi, I'm afraid, since you were locked up here at the time.”

“I could have an accomplice,” Malcolm suggested.

“Do you?”

Malcolm's hands were itching. He pressed his palms together since he couldn't bend his fingers to scratch. “No,” he admitted.

“A Thrallian,” Rasak said.

“A what?”

“Your accomplice,” Rasak said, and smiled to show he was just playing along. He was trying to be nice, Malcolm realised. Make a little joke, like they were friends. This confused him horribly.

“Witnesses saw a man running from the scene. He dropped a radio detonator,” Rasak elaborated. “We recovered DNA. He was a Thrallian. His species.”

“Oh,” Malcolm said. That seemed strange. Thrall, now he thought about it, had been one of the place names Fiest had said to him earlier. Presumably one of the real ones. He shook his head. He felt disquieted, like he was on the brink of something; some part of a puzzle wanting to fall into place, but he couldn't keep the pieces in order.

And Rasak was watching him too closely. His new friend. Malcolm didn't like it. Suddenly, he'd had all the company he could bear.

“Advocate,” he began. Had to be polite. Courtesy was very important to Niskaans. Funny, they didn't think it was rude to blow the shit out of each other all day long, but not saying _please..._ “With all due respect, and I appreciate you have your job to do, and what you're trying to do – ” He could hear himself slurring like a drunk. “But would you go away? Please.”

Rasak put his head on one side. His expression was merely interested. “I am here to help you, Lieutenant,” he said. “As much as I can.”

“I know. But... I don't want your help. Really. Please.” Rasak's expression didn't change, so Malcolm added, “Really. I'm firing you.”

Rasak didn't seem put out in the slightest. Malcolm wondered for a second if he'd even managed to speak out loud, but then the advocate said, “You can't fire me, I'm afraid, Lieutenant. I'm employed by the court, not by you.”

Malcolm slumped.

“Anyway,” Rasak continued, “I only came by to see how you were. And to let you know your Starfleet is pushing hard for a resolution. We may have some news today. They're getting ready to make a very big noise, I think.”

This was probably a metaphor, but Malcolm was unable to prevent himself imagining it literally. Enterprise in low orbit could score a direct hit on this building. Very big noise. Eight out of ten.

“Did you hear what I just said, Lieutenant?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said, though he wasn't sure he had. Rasak was fussing at him, white noise, buzzing with the lights. They had a few more false starts at conversation, but Malcolm kept missing his cues. He felt like Rasak was repeating himself, endlessly, tirelessly, and then he was feeling sick, and then sicker, and then there was nothing in front of his eyes, although they were still open, drying between blinks.

He managed to say _goodbye,_ though he could just as easily have thrown up as spoken.

Rasak seemed to swap himself for a medic, and she pushed Malcolm back so he was lying on the bunk. It was a long way down, but she talked to him until he stopped falling. His muscles had acquired a peculiar twitch, and he kicked the wall behind him hard. The pain crept up on him; it was minutes later before he realised how much it hurt.

And that she had her hand on his face. It felt like a drowned thing on him, cold and dead. His eyes rolled to hers, and she spoke to him like he’d been gone from the room. He nodded in answer to a question, blinked and breathed. She touched him all over, taking his pulse, probing at his wounds. When she took her hands away, he found that he could move again.

He didn’t want to be back in the room. His connection to sleep seemed to have been permanently severed, but he closed his eyes and pretended until she went away. He wanted to go into space again, or the open fields, but he couldn't find himself there. He could still taste the panic Rasak's news had brought, and something was crawling on his skin. Sweat or tears. He put his hands to his face, and the salt burned his palms.

 _White River Square._ A clamour of voices, then a blast that boiled away into ear-ringing silence. A copper coloured fountain, bubbling blood. Maybe if he could fix it, he could make it go away.

The space was open, at least. No buildings close, and the time of day; an evening. No one there except the bomber himself, standing in the centre of everything, the world rushing out from around him.

Eyes still closed, Malcolm frowned.

“He dropped the detonator? He had it in his hand?” he said aloud, but no, Rasak had gone, hadn't he. Still... “Did he press it by accident?”

A still night, dusk creeping. A water supply to prevent fire spreading. A moment carefully chosen when no one was close.

That was a bomb that was never intended to hurt anybody.

* * *

The first thing that hit Trip when they touched down on Niskaa was an eyeful of rain. It was a blustery, miserable day, and ground crew at the shuttleport waved them into land with their shoulders hunched into the wind.

At least the weather excused their jackets, which concealed their phase pistols. Trip was ever-conscious of his, a lump under his armpit, warm with his body heat. He was sure it would show in the way he carried himself, but no one looked twice as they crossed the landing strip to the vehicle which was waiting to bring them to Chibnia. Despite the rain, it felt good to be out, to breathe the fresh air and feel the ground, and Trip might have taken a second to savour it, if the captain’s mood hadn’t been hanging over them all, as black as any cloud in the Niskaan sky.

They were five in the landing party: himself, the captain, Phlox, and two MACOs, and they’d come, with Starfleet’s authority, to issue the Niskaans an ultimatum – that unless Phlox, plus full medical kit, was allowed into the facility to examine Malcolm, and unless he was totally satisfied that Malcolm’s condition had a natural cause, and that he was getting all possible treatment, they were done.

 _And about damn time,_ Trip had thought, when Archer had told him. But what _done_ entailed had still been an unknown quantity. The holding facility had scrambling technology, which ruled out the transporter, and meant the only way to get Malcolm out without the Niskaans’ say-so would be to bust in and get him – a course of action which seemed to be giving Archer pause for thought, though Trip didn’t see why.

“I get pissing them off wasn’t Plan A,” Trip had said. “But aren’t we a little past that now? Can they beat us in a firefight?”

“We have better technology,” Archer said, “but they’d have numbers on us, and their weapons don’t have a stun setting. And we’d be busting into a building full of cops. I don’t know.”

 _I don’t know_ was a phrase Trip had been hearing from Archer a little too often lately, and it wasn’t like him. Hell, it wasn’t like Malcolm either, to engender this level of doubt.

“Tell you what,” Trip had said. “Why don’t we go get your tactical officer, and then we can ask him what he thinks?”

“What my tactical officer thinks appears to be classified,” Archer had replied, with a grim little smile.

It had been about that point Trip had decided to invite himself along.

Archer had objected at first, saying he didn’t need an engineer down there, but since that wasn’t the point and they both knew it, he’d conceded – but not without a warning to Trip to hold onto his temper. “Gruun can be really obtuse, and it’s frustrating, but he has agreed to talk to me. I’m going to give him one more shot at working this out without trouble.”

“Okay,” Trip had said, drawing himself a little straighter. “I hear you, Captain. Pissing them off is Plan B.”

But when the five of them sardined themselves into the Niskaan car, their driver informed them there’d been a change of schedule, and the Premier couldn’t meet them as agreed. He was giving them his back, his eyes fixed ahead as he addressed them, as though relaying some pre-recorded message. They were welcome to wait in Chibnia, he said, and if a window opened up, Gruun would try to accommodate them, but the Premier was a particularly busy man today, and had to prioritise.

Archer acknowledged all this with a tight-jawed nod, and Trip guessed Plan B had just gotten a promotion.

The road to Chibnia was bumpy, and the windows washed with rain. Trip shifted his weight uncomfortably in his seat, his jacket a little too tight over his phase pistol. Among them, only Phlox was unarmed, and Trip himself seemed to be the only one who found wearing a concealed weapon a fidgety business. The captain was unwavering, and the MACOs were doing the MACO version of lounging in their seats, which was stiff as a poker still, but perfectly unflustered.

 _Wonder if Malcolm’s ever worn one of these, up to his secret business._ Malcolm would never fidget, of course, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t feel it. Perhaps it drove him mad, and he kept still all the same. Trip wanted to think so. Being used enough to stop noticing felt kind of cold, and besides, Malcolm preached respect for guns – said any div could shoot one off, and that wasn’t where the skill was. Made sense enough to Trip, even without knowing what a div was.

Trip sighed at the window, hardly seeing the green fields that bumped on by. He kept tripping up against this new piece of information about Malcolm whenever he thought of him, like something half-forgotten left lying around. Truth was, he’d been secretly proud to count himself the one person on Enterprise Malcolm really let his guard down around, and while it wasn’t like he felt Malcolm should have _told_ him, exactly, it did burn a little to know that guard hadn’t been all the way down, after all.

Still, there seemed little point in holding that against Malcolm now. Trip’s world had been re-patterned by grief too many times over the last few years, and he hadn’t come to save Malcolm from the Niskaans just to twist the knife himself. Besides, he’d had his chance to pry once before, and had chosen not to take it.

“So, I’m on Columbia for five minutes,” he’d said to Malcolm, “and Phlox gets kidnapped, the warp core gets rigged to blow, and you get yourself arrested. This place really falls apart without me, huh?”

And Malcolm had laughed, and replied, “I’m sure Columbia is falling apart as we speak.” Which was no kind of answer, but then Trip had asked no kind of question, and since Malcolm’s deflection had been relaxed enough to reassure him that whatever had been wrong, the worst was over, he had let it lie.

 _Yeah. Guess we were both wrong on that one, Malcolm._

Their escort drove them out from under the rain clouds and into Chibnia. It was a mismatched city, old buildings nestled next to new, parts half built up and parts half knocked down. At Archer’s request, they were dropped off at the courthouse, where Malcolm’s advocate had his office – an office which, it turned out, didn’t accommodate six people any kind of comfortably, so after elbows had been bumped and introductions made, Advocate Rasak took them walking.

His route led them down towards the site of last night’s blast. The area had been cordoned off, but to no apparent effect, since Niskaans were simply stepping round the barrier as though it wasn’t there, some stopping to survey the scene in silence, others simply passing right through on a shortcut to somewhere. Rasak likewise treated the barrier as a mere inconvenience, and, after a pause, the rest of them followed him through.

Trip had asked the captain back on Enterprise if Malcolm’s defence was a stand-up guy, and got another _I don’t know_ for his trouble. “I think he’s honest enough,” Archer had said, after a moment’s thought. “But he’s a Niskaan through and through. He’ll help us as long as our interests intersect. After that…” Archer’s voice had trailed into a shrug.

In the flesh, Rasak was young, and had a flighty air about when making small talk that vanished when he talked business. He seemed a little overwhelmed by the whole crowd of them, and directed his conversation mostly towards Archer at first, lecturing as they walked about Thrallians. Smugglers, he said, who operated from a colony moon in the neighbouring system. They’d been a regular source of arms and explosives to both sides of the Niskaan conflict, and investigators were working on the theory that they’d set the explosion in the hope the Niskaan factions would blame each other – an attempt to destabilise the peace for further financial gain.

Archer listened to all this, Trip thought, mostly for politeness’s sake, or perhaps having nearly walked into the blast zone had given him a personal interest.

The debris in the square had been cleared away, and the cobbles swept clean, leaving only a great ugly hole in the centre. It looked incongruous in the cold light of day, with people moving around it, like some oddity of architecture or modern art. Trip was drawn to the edge of it, stared in at the twisted pipework, and felt a shiver that ran deeper than just the damp air.

“Gruun won’t see us,” Archer was telling Rasak. Rasak gave him a cautious look before responding with unsurprised sympathy. He’d already been to check on Malcolm that morning, he said.

“What’s his condition?” Phlox asked.

“Not good,” Rasak admitted. “I have serious doubts about the coherency of this apparent confession. He certainly wasn’t able to repeat it to me.” He frowned into the hole. “Actually, he told me to go away.”

“Malcolm did? Really?” Trip said. He’d heard, of course, that Malcolm wasn’t well, but the details were new to him. Suddenly the lump of the phase pistol under his coat felt more purposeful.

“I don’t think he meant it.” Rasak sounded doubtful. “I’ve never had an alien client before. I must admit, sometimes I find it hard to tell when he’s really not making sense, and when he just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“You and me both,” Trip remarked without thinking. Archer shot him a look, which Trip absorbed with a touch of defiance. It would feel like giving up on Malcolm to start speaking of him in the sombre tones usually reserved for the disgraced or dead.

“Will Gruun care about coherency?” Archer asked.

“I care. I will make him care,” Rasak said, somewhat grimly. Archer, however, was dealing the doubtful looks now. There was something in his pose that told Trip to get ready for action. The focus of their whole group tightened. The MACOs straightened imperceptibly, and Phlox gathered his medical kit close to himself, looking resolved.

Rasak didn’t miss the change in mood. He spoke from the edge of them, into the purposeful silence, a little louder than he had to.

“We were fortunate to identify our friend last night as an off-worlder,” he said, as though he hadn’t paused his lecture. “Otherwise it might have sparked further bloodshed.”

His voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t. They flickered over Archer’s jacket, and Trip realised he must guess that they were armed, that this talk of bloodshed was an admonishment. Archer knew it too, from the way he looked at Rasak, but he didn’t waver.

“If you’re planning violence,” Rasak said, again too loud, “I can’t help you. You’re breaking the law just by carrying arms here.”

Archer swung towards him. “I have tried –” he began, matching Rasak’s tone, but then he broke off, looked around them, and beckoned Rasak to step closer. Rasak did so with careful distaste, like a cat trying to wade. “I have tried to do this your way,” Archer said, lower. “The Niskaan way. It isn’t working. I can’t sit waiting any more while you lodge objections, Advocate. Gruun needs to know we mean business.”

“You’ll only make things worse,” Rasak warned him. He spoke fast, sounding impatient, but it felt to Trip like a cover for nerves. “Do you think Fiest isn’t ready for a fight? You’ll give him an excuse to escalate his violence. Against you, against your officer. What do you think Fiest will do to him, if you’re unsuccessful?”

“I don’t intend to give him the chance,” Archer said. He shook his head, and his frustration bubbled over. “I don’t know how you stomach working with that guy. Working with this system. You know what it is. If you really cared about your client, you’d be backing us up.”

It took Trip a beat to connect _your client_ with Malcolm.

“Captain, your officer is just one man, and he has you,” Rasak said. “If I lost my job trying to help you, I wouldn’t be able to help anyone else, and you would be long gone.”

“So what were you planning on doing?” Archer asked heavily. “Sit back and let Fiest take him apart? Let them send him to prison, since he’s only one man?”

“No, of course not,” Rasak hissed. “I mean to defend him. Legally. Fiest has no evidence, I’m sure of it, or he’d be using it, not resorting to his old tactics. I can beat him in court, I know I can.”

But Archer shook his head. “Your system doesn’t respect your principles, Advocate. I don’t trust Gruun an inch not to pin this on Malcolm to save himself face.” He turned away, and Trip moved to follow, feeling an empty triumph. He felt a little bad for Rasak, but not bad enough to stop him from wanting to get on and do this.

“You haven’t been paying attention.” Rasak threw his words at Archer’s back. “Our situation has changed. That attack last night –”

“Had nothing to do with Malcolm,” Archer cut in hard, over his shoulder.

“Exactly,” Rasak retorted, and then bit off his raised voice. Their commotion was starting to attract some attention. “Look,” he said lower. “The Premier isn’t stupid. He can be reasoned with.”

“We can’t reason with him if we can’t speak with him,” Trip put in. Rasak shot him an unhappy glare.

“I can get the Premier to see you,” he said.

Archer still didn’t turn back to face him. “How?”

Rasak grimaced without humour. “I’ll tell him you’re at the holding facility, armed, and threatening to make trouble.”

Archer laughed shortly. “I thought you didn’t want to make things worse.”

“That would be up to you,” Rasak said. He was wound up ready to spring, with his weight on the balls of his feet. “It may be I can help you yet. If you give me a chance. And if not –” He flicked an eyebrow in contempt. “Well, you still have your guns as a back-up plan.”

“Plan B,” Trip corrected him, with a meaningful glance at Archer. But Archer wasn’t looking at him, he was frowning, his brow lined in thought. Trip resisted the urge to start loudly listing the downsides to Rasak’s offer, since Archer must know them all already, and didn’t always appreciate intrusions on his decision-making. He watched the captain closely instead, shifting his weight from foot to foot, feeling his pistol pinch under his arm.

Archer turned back to face Rasak. “Last chance,” he said, his voice full of warning. Trip couldn’t help bringing his foot down a little too hard. Rasak’s tension broke, and released itself in a flurry of instructions. He’d make the call, he said, and they should go ahead – but try not to shoot anybody. He left them at a half-sprint, and Trip was suddenly reminded of that guy in those old war movies who’d throw himself over the top before the order came from unbearable nerves.

Trip guessed Archer must feel like he owned the young advocate something. He just hoped it wouldn’t cost them. But if Archer had doubts, he never showed them once his mind was made up. The captain watched Rasak run for a moment, then turned back to the rest of them, his eyes expecting readiness.

Trip threw a last look at the hole in the ground, and hitched his shoulders in his jacket to ease access to his gun.

* * *

It turned out the Niskaans at the jail felt five aliens striding unannounced into reception fit their definition of _causing trouble_ pretty well. They were hardly through the door before the front desk called for back-up, more Niskaans materialised, and they found themselves confronted and outnumbered. For one tense, tight moment, both sides sized each other up, then someone moved too fast, or too much, or too slow, or not at all, and the Niskaans drew their weapons, and were matched by the MACOs almost before they’d cleared their holsters.

Trip drew too, just a beat behind, stepped aside to let the MACOs flank Archer, and found himself at the back next to Phlox, feeling Malcolm’s absence like a physical thing. _Any div can shoot a gun,_ Malcolm said, in panic or haste or fear, or that first surge of adrenaline pounding in your ears – the skill was in feeling all that, and then not shooting. Unless you had to. It was knowing when you had to. Did the Niskaans know? Trip ran his eye along them, and tried to see what Malcolm would have seen.

The Niskaans looked a shabby bunch lined up together. Their weapons were mismatched, and the fluorescent lights showed no mercy, picking out where their uniforms had faded and been mended – but they held to their line, and their hands were steady. They might have stayed frozen forever, neither side flinching first, but then another Niskaan, a tall man with a bandage taped over his nose, walked into the low white room as though he owned it.

“Agent Fiest,” Archer addressed him through gritted teeth. “I want to see my officer.”

“We all want things we can’t have, Captain,” Fiest said. He ran his eye over them with curious contempt. “Are you making a scene? How tedious.”

A few of the Niskaans chuckled at that, which stuck a pin in the mood and let some tension out. Fiest knew, Trip saw, and had made the room safer. He did not seem to be armed himself, but still he moved right to the front and stood before their weapons, apparently counting on his people to cover him.

“Well, I’d hate to bore you,” Archer bit out. Fiest was right in front of him, with Archer’s phase pistol pointed right at his chest. “I’m done negotiating, Fiest. I’m not leaving here without Lieutenant Reed.”

“Aren’t you?” Fiest sounded interested, his voice dripping with oil. Archer’s jaw set, and Trip guessed the well of productive talk between the two parties had just run dry. He felt very aware of Phlox beside him, serious and silent, armed with only his medical kit. If this all kicked off, it would fall to Trip to cover him.

The explosion Trip was expecting came, but from the wrong direction. The door burst open. Trip almost swung his phase pistol towards it, and he wasn’t the only one. Fiest had to check his own men with a fierce jerk of his head, or Rasak would have been shot on the doorstep.

The advocate held his ground, though his eyes went a little too wide.

“Premier Gruun is here,” he said. “Perhaps you ought not to shoot him.”

Rasak stepped carefully between the two rows of weapons to stand in the middle of the room, ignoring the ripple and fluster of re-aiming this created around him. Trip looked to the door again, and saw a second man there, taking in the scene, and seeming to swell to fill the door frame as he did so.

“What is going on here?” Gruun demanded. “Captain Archer, what are you hoping to achieve by this? I won’t be bullied.” His volume felt crass in contrast to Fiest, who made the whole room crane to listen when he lowered his voice. Fiest himself gave the Premier a look that was no less nasty than he’d given to any of the interlopers, before inclining his head in greeting.

“As you can see, Captain Archer is seeking to demonstrate the inherent peacefulness of his species by threatening us with guns.”

“If there’s an easier way to get bumped up your list of priorities, I’d like to know it,” Archer said, his eyes and his weapon still locked on Fiest. Gruun was swelling up to bark some retort, but Rasak spoke across him. He had none of Fiest’s presence either; it was easy to forget he was there when he wasn’t speaking, but he knew how to make himself heard when he had to.

“Premier, Agent Fiest has brought this trouble to us. As ever, he is intent on sabotaging our justice system to satisfy his own ends.”

Fiest shot him a look that could have set his clothes on fire. “You’ve lost your way to the courthouse, Advocate,” he said.

Rasak raised an eyebrow at him, and looked, if anything, a little cocky. “You’ll have to defend your treatment of your prisoner at some point,” he said. “Why not now?”

“My prisoner ought to defend his treatment of me.” Fiest touched the bandage on his nose, and Trip wanted to let out an ironic cheer.

Rasak seemed to feel like that too. He was smiling a little as he turned back to Gruun. “Perhaps Captain Archer would be prepared to leave, and return at a more opportune moment,” he suggested. Archer shot him a sideways look, but Trip saw Rasak wasn’t asking – he was making it clear to Gruun that this was happening now, whether he condoned it or not.

Gruun saw this too, and his mounting objection faltered. He had to go along with Rasak, or admit that he had no control over the situation.

“I’m a busy man,” he backtracked crossly. “Our city was attacked last night. You’d better make your point quickly, Advocate.”

But Fiest was quicker. “You’re an easy mark with your bleeding heart, _Advocate_.” He spat the word like sarcasm. “I’ve been handling terrorists since you were playing courthouse with your dolls in the dirt. They are not like the common criminals you deal with. They don’t respect life, they don’t respond to kindness. They’ll work any system which protects their rights. You don’t know the kind of person you’re defending.”

“No, _you_ don’t,” Trip butted in, surprising himself as much as anyone. “What if your suspect isn’t guilty? What then?”

Fiest scanned their group for the speaker, and found Trip’s eye. He grinned at him wolfishly.

“As a hypothetical question, an interesting point,” he said. “You should discuss it with Rasak, he’s fond of hypotheticals too. But in this case, it’s irrelevant. My suspect is guilty.”

Archer’s raised objection drowned out Trip’s, which was probably a good thing. The captain was still locked on Fiest, though Fiest was ignoring him, letting his attention roam the room, a calculated insult. Trip fingered his phase pistol, hating the thought of this man having his spiteful paws all over Malcolm. He wondered how close Malcolm was; if he was aware of the commotion. _Hang in there, Malcolm. We’re nearly there._

“Premier, you’ve been sitting up there in your big office, so maybe you really don’t know what’s been going on.” Archer was laying into Gruun. “Want to tell me again about your modern justice system? Fiest’s condemned my officer without trial.”

“He did kill somebody,” Fiest remarked. “A point that you seem keen for us to overlook.”

“Indeed,” Gruun butted in on the back of this. “We’ve been over this. I wouldn’t have had this happen, but it has. What would you have me do? Advocate?”

Fiest gave a snort. “Forgive and forget,” he suggested. His tone was tauntingly playful, but the light in his eyes was far from it.

Rasak waited with exaggerated courtesy to make sure everyone was done. By the time he finally began speaking, the whole room was looking expectantly at him.

“Our city was attacked last night.” He echoed Gruun’s words. “We have had peace here for eight months, then two violent incidents occur within a few days, within streets of each other. It makes sense to assume a connection.”

Fiest started to laugh unpleasantly, but Rasak ignored him. “Eska left his home five nights ago, claiming he was looking for someone he knew. An off-worlder. We had no evidence before that any off-worlder except Lieutenant Reed existed. But now we know there were Thrallians here. Arms dealers. People Eska must certainly have known, at least by reputation.”

“Circumstantial,” Fiest said, with a smirk. “Come on, Advocate. You’d never let me get away with that.”

“Nevertheless, you’d try,” Rasak said. He found Archer’s eye. “Captain, I told you the fountain in White River Square was a memorial. Government troops stormed a Separatist protest in the square, killing scores of civilians. Some years ago now, but the memorial was built only months ago, when the ceasefire was signed. As a gesture of reconciliation. Eska was one of those who argued most passionately that the Separatist martyrs must be remembered.”

Fiest was rolling his eyes, as though everything from politics to Rasak was absurd.

“Eska would have abhorred the idea of an attack on the square, the memorial to his people,” Rasak said. “If he became aware of what these Thrallians were planning, he would certainly have been angry. He would have wished to prevent it. And Thrallians and humans are not dissimilar in appearance…”

Rasak glanced at Archer, as though inviting him to speak and conclude his reasoning, but Archer hesitated, his forehead creased. This struck Trip as a misstep, but before he could dwell on it, Rasak went on;

“If Eska mistook Lieutenant Reed for one of these alien agitators, or for someone who was working with them – well, the outcome was unfortunate, but Eska had no intention of undermining the ceasefire. If anything, he set out to defend it.”

“All that proves is that you can make up stories, Advocate,” Fiest cut in. “Or that someone can.” Archer swallowed like he didn’t like the taste of that. Trip, watching him, felt a flicker of doubt. There was something going on here – but right now it only mattered if it stopped them getting Malcolm out.

“I tell you,” Fiest raised his voice. “Eska and Reed knew each other. Reed’s confession is mostly obfuscation. He is being difficult. But it is a start, and this was the first thing he confessed to me.”

“Torture compels false confessions,” Rasak said. The word, and especially the matter-of-fact way with which Rasak said it, hit Trip in right the chest. He looked again at Archer, wanting him to cut to the chase, and saw him grit his teeth.

“If Lieutenant Reed is guilty, Agent Fiest has ruined his own chance to prove it,” Rasak was telling Gruun. “He’s made sure nothing he says now can be accepted by an unbiased court.”

“The prisoner has made no allegation of mistreatment,” Fiest said coolly. “Even with Rasak’s encouragement.”   
“Your prisoner could hardly speak to me when I last saw him,” Archer spat. Fiest met his eye then and his mouth quirked minutely.

“Your interpersonal problems aren’t my concern, Captain.”

“This is unhelpful!” Rasak raised his voice across both of them. “Premier, Agent Fiest abuses his prisoner until he can hardly contradict him, and he calls this a confession. It damages the credibility of our justice system, and your credibility, Premier. I’m sure the press –”

“Yes, thank you, Advocate,” Gruun interrupted, frowning. “I’m sure you’d enjoy that very much.” Rasak was backing him up against a wall, Trip saw, since Gruun wouldn’t compromise himself out loud, whatever his private convictions. He saw the young advocate’s wisdom in involving him now. Fiest on his own would fight them to the death on principle, but Gruun was a politician.

Gruun looked at Fiest sideways now, as though he’d convened this meeting himself. “Advocate Rasak’s theory does have some merit,” he said. “It does makes some sense to seek a connection between these two incidents. Do you have any evidence of Lieutenant Reed’s involvement? Besides this confession, I mean?”

Trip swallowed a stab of impatience at Gruun for going to evidence before torture, but reminded himself, _whatever works_. Rasak seemed content to watch, his eyes bright, now he’d set Fiest and Gruun on each other.

And Fiest suddenly looked shifty.

“I have an informant,” he said, tightly. Archer’s head came up with a jerk. “My informant identified Lieutenant Reed to me. He has seen Reed and Eska together. And now Eska is dead, and Reed had the nerve to stand up in court and say he didn’t know him.”  
Rasak raised his eyebrows in controlled surprise. “I don’t seem to have this information,” he said. “What’s your informant’s name? Is he taking the stand?”

“Don’t imply that I’m lying,” Fiest growled at him, but it was clearly a _no_ to Rasak’s question. He shot a glance at Gruun, perhaps looking for back-up, but didn’t seem to like what he saw there.

“I know the type of person you call your informants,” Rasak said. “Petty thieves, career criminals, illegal aliens. Most of them will tell you anything you want to hear if you’ll pay them and turn a blind eye.”

“He is not one of those,” Fiest said. He spoke quickly. “Rasak, you’re an idiot. You’re playing straight into their hands –”

“Personal insults are not admissible in court,” Rasak interrupted. “And nor is informant from mystery informants.”

“And nor are your convenient fairy tales,” Fiest spat. Rasak’s return gaze was mild, so Fiest redirected, and locked eyes with Archer as though he’d only just entered the room. “You might fool Rasak, but you don’t fool me,” he snarled. “I know Reed is just a cog in a wheel. I know he belongs to your _Section_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Archer told him, with feeling. “Lieutenant Reed is a _Starfleet_ officer.”   
Trip, who was not a good natural liar himself, was impressed.

“You keep saying _Starfleet_ like it means something to me,” Fiest hissed. “I’ll tell you what it means to me. It means if Reed lies, you are all liars. If he is guilty, you are all guilty.”

Archer missed the split-second when he should have retorted to this, but it didn’t matter. Trip was watching Gruun, and he saw with a flash of triumph that Fiest had just bitten off way more than the Premier was prepared to chew. Arresting one officer acting alone was one thing, but implicating the whole of Starfleet was a different matter altogether – unthinkable for a small and distant power like Niskaa, with nothing but its pride to fight with.

And Gruun did not have that kind of pride.

He gathered himself up. “Agent Fiest, you are aware that if anything untoward has happened with your prisoner, you will have to answer for it.”

Fiest’s eyes flashed at him, unreadable.

“I just did my job,” he said, after a pause. He spoke evenly, but he had lost some fire, as though a part of him had detached itself from the conversation.

“And nothing to show for it but hints and paranoia,” Rasak butted back in. “And now evidence that you’ve been looking in the wrong direction. Premier, I see no option but to acquit or declare a mistrial.”

Gruun’s look at Rasak wasn’t entirely pleasant either, but he couldn’t be openly hostile to the young advocate without admitting that he was been pushed. “But Agent Fiest does have a point,” he said, as though he’d been chairing the debate all along. “Even if you are correct, it would be unjust to release Lieutenant Reed untried. And that wouldn’t go unremarked on by the press either.”

“Justice,” Fiest spat shortly. “This planet doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

Silence. A couple of the Niskaans looked shocked, as though he’d said something obscene. Rasak raised his eyebrows. Gruun puffed up a little. Fiest ignored the room’s reaction. He’d locked in on Archer as his adversary now, his eyes the sharpest thing in the room. Archer’s lip curled at him, his phase pistol still levelled.

“That’s your problem, isn’t it, Fiest?” he said. “You lost somebody, and now you want everyone to pay for it.”

Fiest’s jaw twitched. The air in the room grew tight around him. Then something in him seemed to give, and he looked away, as though Archer simply wasn’t worth his attention any more.

Archer relaxed an inch. “Premier, I’m done here,” he said, blandly, and his tone brooked no debate. Fiest, from where he’d turned away, flicked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Gruun was scanning the room, reading its mood. His eyes lit on Rasak, who looked about to speak again, and he frowned in annoyance. “Perhaps, as a gesture of peace,” he said, before Rasak could begin, inviting a further low snort from Fiest. “But I won’t have it said you forced my hand. Your Admiral McCormick offered us a deal before, that you’d try Lieutenant Reed in a Starfleet court if we’d extradite. That’s the deal I want. If you’ll honour that, you can take him and go.”

Archer was still, expressionless for a moment. Then he seemed to shake himself, and said, “Fine. That’s fine. He’ll stand trial.”

 _What the hell_ , Trip figured. _Once we’re off the planet, it’s not like they can make us._  
Gruun nodded, and looked to the guards. “Fetch the prisoner,” he ordered.   
Nothing happened.

The line of Niskaan guards were all looking at Fiest, who had his eyes fixed on the middle distance, as though the room had gone away.

“Fiest?” Gruun said to him in warning. Fiest turned his head slowly to look at him, a measured move, his eyes alight. Trip, who’d been in the act of lowering his phase pistol, paused. Fiest was at the centre of the room, and his guards still had their weapons cocked. If he chose to defy Gruun, it was obvious the firepower was on his side. Trip felt vulnerable on Gruun’s behalf.

Rasak spoke as though none of this was happening, his voice echoless in the low room. “This is a good outcome for us, Premier,” he said. “All the things we feared – that our ceasefire would be broken, that this would bring violence between our species. None of this has happened. We can move forward.” He was prompting Gruun now, feeding him a spin to put on the story, and Trip wanted to laugh out loud at his nerve.

Fiest’s head snapped to Rasak with a look that could have slayed him. But with the movement, his deadlock with Gruun was over. Rasak simply stared mildly back. Fiest blazed for a second, then he sputtered out.

“Fetch him,” he snapped, and turned away, his back tight with disgust.

The Niskaans scattered. Trip lowered his weapon. Gruun gathered himself, as though this had all been intended. Rasak exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. Trip caught his eye, and had to grin at him. Rasak looked a little embarrassed and pleased, before he remembered he didn’t much like them either, and re-framed his face.

Fiest, in the act of stalking from the room, caught his expression.

“Well done, Advocate,” he told him, his voice smooth with insincerity. “A great victory for the bleeding hearts. And interesting, don’t you think, how much Lieutenant Reed and coincidence have to do with each other? First he’s the most unfortunate victim of it – and then another comes along to save him, just in time.”

“You are paranoid,” Rasak remarked, his tone now conversational rather than lawyerly. It made him sound as young as he must be.

“And you’re so horribly naïve,” Fiest muttered back, “I almost envy you.”

But his bitterness was shining through, and Rasak turned away from it, his triumph undented.

Archer’s face looked like thunder. Fiest caught his eye.

“And you’re wrong about me,” he said, low. “I don’t want everyone to pay. Just the people who owe us.”

For a moment, Archer was so still it was like he hadn’t heard, but then he looked at Fiest. The hate in Archer’s eyes almost equalled his, and it was his own words that Archer gave back to him.

“We all want things we can’t have, Agent Fiest.”


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm hoped very much that this was a dream. Something had gone horribly wrong, if not.

He was being passed from hand to hand, and though they started out as Niskaan hands, he seemed to finish up somewhere else, surrounded by familiar voices. Some of them were raised in anger, and others came far too close to him, and made him flinch away – which they didn’t like, since they caught him, and held him, reassuring him patiently that he was being very stupid, in so many words.

A splatter of rain hit his face. He was being half pushed and half carried. Pressed between people, guided, arranged. He shuddered. Slid out of the dream, or into another; back to where he’d come from. He was busy, making, mending, wiring. Industrious boxes of bombs. When they tried to make him walk again, he faltered, scared to touch the ground, of what could be buried there.

He was being scanned, and the sensation, even though he knew there was no sensation, went right through him. Someone put a jacket round his shoulders. Trip. Phlox. He couldn’t not know their voices, though he didn’t want to think them out loud.

Captain Archer too. His presence plucked at a guilty chord in Malcolm’s guts. He wanted to struggle, to start a fight, to moan aloud at the mess he’d made. Why couldn’t Archer just let it go, leave it between him and the Niskaans? It was their own business, no one else’s.

But he couldn’t fight the people around him. They had him. Whenever he moved, someone caught him. He tried to slide away again, but the questions came with him; what had happened, what was happening to him.

He forced his eyes open to the here-and-now, like waking to a dreaded morning. Phlox was kneeling in front of him, far too real.

“Lieutenant,” Phlox said to him, as though it were a precursor to asking him a question. Malcolm blinked at him, to show he was present and ready to answer, but no question came. Instead, Phlox, reading from his scanner, spoke to someone Malcolm couldn’t see, said something Malcolm couldn’t follow; his speech too fast, too indistinct, and aimed in the wrong direction.

Malcolm’s cuffs had been removed. He could feel their absence around his wrists, and wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. They were useless anyway, his fingers feeling over-stuffed, swollen and stiff. He stared at the map of scars on his palms. Red roads. He wandered down them.

Slid, and then his head jerked. His whole body jerked. He was back in the room. Room? Shuttlepod. He recognised the bland colours, and the rattle of flight. Trip was beside him, sitting very close; too close, really. Malcolm found that he was shaking. This was awkward, and embarrassing, and apparently unstoppable, since all his attempts to brace himself against it only seemed to make it worse. And Trip, if anything, was edging closer.

“Hey,” Trip said to him. “Doing okay?” It was definitely not a dream then. Phlox had moved a few metres away. Malcolm could hear him speaking, and Archer’s answering voice, so he and Trip had the corner to themselves. Suddenly it was fine that Trip was practically on top of him; he was providing a solid barrier between Malcolm and the rest of the shuttlepod. Malcolm nodded in answer to his question, which made Trip smile, a genuine, but strained smile, and say “Hey,” again, as though it were the first time.

“Okay?” Trip said to him again. “We’re on our way home. You’re gonna be fine. Just hang on in there.”

The last struck Malcolm as a particularly odd and worrying thing to say. He wanted to answer, but his mouth was suddenly dry, his jaw locked hard.

Light flickered, sunlight in the windows, maybe, or lights popping behind his eyes. Trip suddenly had his arm around his shoulders, which shouldn’t be possible, since a moment ago Malcolm’s back had been pressed against the bulkhead. He’d fallen forward without knowing, and Trip had caught him.

“Doc?” Trip was saying. Malcolm wished he wouldn’t, but it was too late to stop him now. Trip’s voice was carefully steady, but Malcolm didn’t miss the note of alarm he was trying to conceal. He felt awful for being so alarming.

 _No, no, I'm okay,_ he wanted to say, but the light flared and overwhelmed him, glancing white, like the sun off the surface of the water. He was sinking. Being dragged out by the tide, miles, many miles, away.

Phlox's voice. Leaning close. “Lieutenant?” he was saying. “Can you hear me?”

Malcolm engaged his tongue sufficiently to make an _unf_ sound. His jaw was working again, but stiffly, and his mouth tasted vile.

And his orientation was all wrong. He found he was lying out horizontal on the bench seat. Phlox had a heavy hand on his shoulder, and someone was pressing their weight across his middle, hands clamped around his wrists. He tried and failed to struggle. Kept his eyes closed, mostly to avoid being looked at. Phlox’s scanner chuckled at him. People spoke, around him, to him.

After a time, he was too conscious to pretend that he wasn’t any more. He felt wrenched and jolted, like he’d hit the ground falling. He tried to roll, but two voices, two sets of hands, discouraged him.

“What –?” he managed.

“… perfectly alright,” Phlox was telling him. “Nothing to worry about. You’ve had a seizure. I’ve given you an anticonvulsant. You’ll be fine. We’re nearly back on Enterprise now.”

Malcolm stared at his face and felt stupid. Beyond his immediate surroundings, everything was formless shape and formless sound. He wondered if Archer was there, watching, but all he knew for sure was Phlox, close enough that Malcolm could feel his breath on his face, and Trip – it was Trip – who was leaning on his middle.

“Why –?” he tried again, but Phlox soothed right on over him, and Malcolm wasn’t sure how to finish anyway. _Why am I here?_ How existential. He kicked in irritation, feeling pinned. They were stealing his air, Trip and Phlox between them, but struggling only made them hold harder.

The shuttlepod bumped when it docked, and for a moment, he thought he’d been falling again.

“What happened?” he finally managed to ask, as they bore him on his back into sickbay. Phlox made reassuring noises at him without taking his eyes off his scanner. Malcolm, feeling ignored, tried to assert himself, but he couldn’t raise either himself or his voice, and when Phlox finally addressed him directly, all he said was, “Lie still, please.”

They shed Trip and the rest of their company somewhere on the way to sickbay. Finding himself on a biobed, unrestrained and assaulted by cramps, Malcolm scrabbled at the empty air for a handhold, and kicked his way half off the bed. Phlox whisked a curtain around them, and assaulted him too, with an efficiently ruthless examination. He reminded Malcolm of the Niskaan guards – he was not rough, but his very professionalism steamrollered over all Malcolm’s attempts to protest being stripped, prodded or manipulated. Malcolm was reprimanded when he held a hand up to protect himself from the hypospray.

“Now, now,” Phlox said.

“Come off it,” Malcolm snarled at him. This actually seemed to get heard; at least, Phlox raised his brows at him in faint surprise, and told him, “Calm down,” as though he were being totally unreasonable. Malcolm sat up to retaliate, but the act set him coughing, and by the time he’d finished, he’d lost the will to fight, and collapsed limply back against the bed.

“Shit,” he said. And then catching Phlox’s eye, and suddenly feeling entirely contrite, added, “Sorry.”

“Quite alright, Lieutenant,” Phlox replied, pleasantly. “But do try to keep still. You have a considerable quantity of stimulant in your bloodstream. Unfortunately, I can’t sedate you. This –” he held up the hypospray, “is an analgesic, which should help you feel more comfortable. If you’ll let me. I’d rather not have to restrain you.”

“What happened?” Malcolm asked him again. Phlox, taking this as compliance, pressed the hypospray against his neck, and then said, “The captain and your advocate between them persuaded the Niskaans to release you.”

This sounded wrong, all wrong. “How?” Malcolm demanded.

“On the grounds of your ill-treatment. That, and they had no evidence against you.” Phlox paused, and then asked, in a carefully neutral tone, “When was the last time you slept properly?”

“They had…” Malcolm trailed off, and felt horribly confused, like there was something he’d forgotten. “Where is the captain?” he asked.

“No doubt waiting for news of you.” Phlox peered at him. “Do you want to see him? You should rest, but if it would make you feel better…”

Malcolm was torn in two, and gawped at the ceiling.

“Perhaps not,” Phlox decided for him, and Malcolm felt guiltily relieved. The analgesic made him feel chewed up and spat out; he still wriggled, but with less vigour. Phlox seemed to accept this as a compromise, and continued his examination. He touched a damp cloth to Malcolm’s face, which nearly made him dive off the bed.

Phlox sighed at him. “Your temperature is elevated,” he said, but did not pursue the issue. He tried to shine a light in Malcolm’s eyes instead, which was equally unwelcome, but when Malcolm flinched, Phlox simply put his torch away and moved on. They were able to finish up with only minimal conflict.

“When was the last time you slept?” Phlox asked him again. Malcolm rolled his eyes, and made a bit of a show of trying to count to avoid having to answer. He had no idea at all, even how long his incarceration had been. Weeks, perhaps, or just one long hellish day.

“They must have given you regular injections,” Phlox probed. “The quantity you have in your bloodstream appears accumulative. And you have multiple needle marks on your arm.”

Malcolm didn’t really want to think about that. He wasn’t accountable; it wasn’t relevant. Had they just let him go? Archer had done that? The Niskaans? Did they think he hadn’t done it?

“They made a mistake,” he said to Phlox, who replied darkly, “I don’t think so,” but he was talking about irrelevant things.

“You need to sleep,” Phlox told him. “But unfortunately that’s going to be difficult before the stimulant wears off. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to keep you comfortable, and you should do your best to lie still. I’m going to put an IV in, so you’ll need to be careful not to pull it out again.”

Malcolm watched his lips move. It was plain Phlox didn’t know who he was speaking to, not really. He frowned at the ceiling. The lights were annoying. Phlox scratched at his arm, and he yelped in pure pain.

“Now, it's just a needle,” Phlox clucked at him. “You won't notice it in a minute. There, how's that?”

“It's pinching. A lot.” Malcolm knew he sounded pettish, but it couldn’t be helped; made to lie here, with pins stuck in him. It was a waste of his time. He tried to bring his other hand over to paw at it, but Phlox caught him by the wrist.

“Would it be fair to say you’re experiencing some hypersensitivity?” Phlox said, his light tone belaying the strength of his grip.

“No, it would be fair to say it just bloody hurts.”

“Okay.” Phlox released him, and made a note on his PADD. Malcolm shot him a suspicious look. “Just relax,” Phlox told him soothingly, eyes still on his work. “Try to be still.”

Malcolm threw his advice straight back in his face by kicking involuntarily, and snapping “ _Shit_!” at the ceiling. His own temper exhausted him. “Sorry,” he added again, sheepishly, quite spent.

“No need to apologise, Lieutenant,” Phlox finished whatever he was writing, set his PADD down, and smiled at him brightly. “I lack the social conditioning to be offended by human profanities.”

This, it turned out, was for the best. It was a long time before Malcolm slept. Phlox stayed within earshot of him, his footfalls soft, talking to him, his tone chatty and mild. Malcolm didn’t follow most of what he said, but it didn’t seem to matter. For all he shouldn’t be there, it helped to know, when he closed his eyes, that Enterprise hadn’t dropped away around him. He felt sweaty and shivery, and a few times he had to scramble for breath, and lay panting on the biobed as though he’d been running up hills.

Trip came some time, hours maybe, later. Malcolm was surprised Phlox let him in. Perhaps he’d run out of chatty, mild things to say, and wanted someone else to take a turn. Malcolm felt wrung out by then, pinned down by the pressure on his chest. It was nice to see Trip again, an uncomplicated, positive emotion that almost undid him. He wanted to turn away.

He closed his eyes instead, and when he opened them found time had passed. Trip was still there, though, and had placed his hand on Malcolm’s arm, just above the IV. He was watching Malcolm’s face thoughtfully.

“How do I look?” Malcolm asked him, calling him out for staring as much as actually wanting to know.

“Awful,” Trip told him, without contrition, and Malcolm felt a wave of gratitude towards him for not telling lies. “Heck of a scar,” Trip remarked too, running a finger down the line of his own cheek to show him. Malcolm had forgotten about that. He raised a hand, but found he couldn’t coordinate touching himself, and ended up bumping his abused fingers on the pillow instead. A jolt of pain shot all the way up to his shoulder, and he groaned.

This made Trip half-rise, looking around for Phlox, or some other item of comfort. Malcolm couldn’t focus on him when he moved; it made him nauseous to try.

“I feel like I fell off a building,” Malcolm muttered, half in explanation, and half because talking to Trip might make him sit down again.

“Yeah.” Trip did sit, and replaced his hand on Malcolm’s arm. Malcolm wasn’t sure if he was being gently restrained from yanking his IV out, or if Trip was trying to hold his hand without touching his hand. Either way, he wanted to resent it, find it irritating, but that would require effort to sustain, and actually, it wasn’t unpleasant. Trip’s fingers were rough-tipped and warm.

“You know the phrase ‘like death warmed up’?” Trip said.

“Intimately familiar,” Malcolm said, though it might not have come out right.

“Well, you kinda look like death that’s been dropped from a great height, buried for a month, dug up, then warmed up. But –” Trip hurried him past the image, “You're home, that's the main thing, and once that stuff they gave you wears off, you can sleep. Everything's going to be fine.”

“You keep saying that,” Malcolm said. Each word seemed to weigh a ton. “And people never say that. When things really are.”

He couldn’t keep his eyes open, or closed either. They just wouldn’t stay where he put them. He saw Trip smile at him, crookedly and sadly, between heavy blinks.

“Weren't you losing consciousness a moment ago?” Trip said. “Carry on with that.”

Malcolm did.

* * *

Archer pushed himself away from his desk, stood up from his chair, and found that he hurt all over. The explosion, the chase down the alley, the fight with the masked man, were all finally catching up with him. His back snagged as he stretched, and he winced. He should ask Phlox for something.

He’d been on the comm to Starfleet for over an hour, giving his report. The edited version. His ribs hurt too, and his shoulder had been wrenched, when he’d been flipped over and slammed on his back by that… person. The Thrallian. Or not a Thrallian. Maybe just the DNA was Thrallian. He should have noticed before – he’d been battered with gloved fists, and why would someone go to all the trouble of putting gloves on to plant a bomb, and then drop a detonator they’d already smeared their DNA all over?

 _It’s a conspiracy theory,_ Archer told himself, as he left his ready room, the door swishing shut behind him. _You’re taking Fiest’s word for this? Fiest is paranoid. Bitter and paranoid. Hell, you’re paranoid. Not everything that happens on Niskaa has to do with you. Rasak would reproach you for thinking so._

But this was a last grasp, and he knew it. Fiest had been bitter, true, his eyes knowing and cunning, but he hadn’t been mad. And Rasak, for all his pretentions to objectivity, believed too much in how things ought to be instead of how they were. It made far too much sense – that Harris had been behind the explosion in Chibnia, rigged it to take the heat off Malcolm, and point the finger another way. Harris had played around in Niskaan politics, put lives at risk, for his own ends, and Archer had endorsed it all; invited him in.

That he hadn’t known exactly what Harris would do did not excuse him. What had he expected, after all? That Harris would do nothing? That he’d ask the Niskaans nicely? Archer hadn’t dwelt on it, in truth, focused on Fiest and Gruun as his enemies, sure that Malcolm would have some kind of explanation that would turn on a light bulb, make everything clear. He and Rasak had the same fault in common – Archer had looked hardest for the outcome that he wanted to be true.

So what had Malcolm done, then? Archer’s hunch was that if Harris had felt it necessary to produce another off-worlder Eska had motive to attack, the truth must lie in the opposite direction. That there had been no one else, no mistaken identity. It had been Malcolm who Eska had been after all along.

Which meant Malcolm had lied to the court about not knowing the man. Quite a performance too, all his pauses perfectly in the right place. Archer had never doubted him for a second, watching. And if that was a lie, what else was? Had the killing really been self-defence? Malcolm wouldn’t kill from malice or thuggery, Archer was sure, but if he felt that he had to, to avoid exposure, or to cover up some Section misdeed… well, he was certainly capable of killing as a tactical decision. He had done so more than once before, under Archer’s command.

 _But that’s in battle. He’s a soldier, following orders, he’s not a murderer. Killing with a knife… it’s different from firing a torpedo._

But was it different, really? It felt different, but the result was people dead all the same. Malcolm must surely know that, feel the burden of it, just as much as Archer did. They’d been collaborators in their killings – Archer said the word, and Malcolm pressed the button. Perhaps Malcolm had figured that if he could do one kind of killing, it was pointless sentimentality, a quibble over semantics, to baulk at the other. Perhaps it was.

 _No, dammit, I’m not going to be made to feel like the hypocrite here. I gave those orders when I had to, for the sake of my crew, my planet, my home._

 _And Harris would tell you that’s why he does it too. And Malcolm would follow orders…_

The door to sickbay swished open before him. Archer had been stalking down the corridors, carrying his loud thoughts, and the atmosphere, as he entered, brought him up short. The place had an after-hours feel, low lights and jungle noises. A privacy curtain had been drawn around Malcolm’s bed, and all was quiet from that quarter. Phlox was standing at a work station, squeezing something yellow out of a bug into a bowl. Trip was leaning nearby, watching him, looking distracted and disgusted both at once.

Seeing the two of them, circled by the pool of light from Phlox’s desk lamp, Archer felt a man apart, excluded by the weight of what he knew, and what they didn’t. They raised their eyes to him, and Archer found he was already feeling defensive.

“Captain,” Phlox greeted him, giving his bug a final tap, and setting it aside.

“How is he?” Archer asked.

“Asleep,” Phlox said, with a small note of triumph. He found a particular PADD among the PADDs on his desk, and passed it to Archer, who gave it a cursory glance, and waited for Phlox to talk him through it.

“The Niskaans have been giving him regular doses of a stimulant to disrupt his sleep patterns,” Phlox tapped at a formula on the screen, his face turning grave. “It was counteracting my attempts to sedate him, and we’ve had to wait for the residual effects to wear off. Captain, I don’t believe he’s been allowed to sleep properly since his arrest.”

“He’s a mess,” Trip put in. “That’s _my_ medical opinion,” he added, folding his arms a little ruefully. “Captain, he hardly knows where he is.”

Archer, knowing that Trip was trying to preempt his response to Malcolm, and reading, perhaps, a reproach for not coming by sooner, ignored him, and said to Phlox, “The seizure?”

“The accumulative effect of drugs and exhaustion. The longer he went without sleep, the harder it became for his system to metabolise the stimulants. I’m hopeful that the risk will pass now he’s able to rest.”

“What else?” Archer ran his eyes down Phlox’s report.

“He has some bruising, but nothing too extensive – except around his wrists, where he’s been restrained.” Phlox’s tone was professional, but he kept a note of concealed anger behind it. “And there’s a few odd things I can’t determine a direct cause for. He has a great deal of muscle and joint pain, which I’d be inclined to attribute to a build-up of toxins caused by sleep deprivation, except he also has blisters on his feet. And he has an infection on his chest, and an elevated temperature. He’s also been having some breathing difficulties, though I can’t identify any physical obstruction.”

Archer kept his eyes on the PADD. “Will he be okay?” he asked.

“I believe he will recover,” Phlox said. “Provided there are no unexpected aftereffects from the drugs. But it will take some time, he’s been through a great deal. I certainly won’t be letting him rush back to duty.”

Archer nodded. _Say it_ , he told himself. _They’re just going to have to learn to live with it. Pretending it never happened is Harris’s game._

“He won’t be rushing back to duty anyway,” Archer said. “He’s suspended, awaiting trial.”

A shocked silence met this remark, as Archer knew it would.

“You’re going to make him stand trial?” Trip straightened up abruptly from his lean, his forehead creased in consternation. “I thought you just said that for the Niskaans.”

“We did make a deal,” Archer said, knowing he would sound obtuse – but Trip’s constant defending of Malcolm was starting to feel like picking sides against him. Trip had the luxury of uncomplicated loyalty. It wasn’t Trip who was going to have to make the decisions, after all.

But of course Trip wasn’t going to let it go either. “What’s the point?” he insisted, his frown deep, and his voice rising. “What’s a Starfleet court gonna prove that the Niskaans couldn’t?”

“This is not a situation to be taken at face value,” Archer said through gritted teeth. He glowered pointedly, not wanting to get into particulars in front of Phlox, but the doctor seemed more concerned with the volume of their conversation than the content.

“My patient is sleeping, gentlemen,” he said with a note of finality. _Shut up or get out_ , Archer heard. He gave Trip a hard look; he wasn’t finished here, and was damned if he’d be the one to leave the room, as though he’d been turned out.

Trip, after holding Archer’s eye incredulously for a moment, created his own compromise by turning to Phlox, jerking his head at the closed curtain, and asking, “Can I go sit with him?”

Phlox hesitated, but seemed to decide the path of least resistance would also be the least disruptive.

“Quietly,” he said, looking so stern Trip practically tiptoed away from him. Archer, not looking at Phlox for permission in case it was refused, followed him to the edge of the curtain.

After all that he’d been telling himself in his head, the sight of Malcolm made Archer feel winded. He was, after all, exactly the same Malcolm he had known for four years, except he looked as sick as a corpse, bloodlessly pale, his eyes bruised with shadow. Phlox had looped soft bandages around the arm with the IV in and secured it to the bed, presumably to stop him pulling it free, and he looked collapsed, rather than comfortable, his pose contorted slightly against the restraint.

 _But I couldn’t just leave him there. Whatever he’s done._ And that was the rub. Harris had got the job done, or at least handed Rasak, unknowing, the weapon with which to do it, and he’d done it in such a way that made everyone happy – as long as they never knew. Ceasefire holding, diplomatic relations intact, Starfleet secrets preserved, no bloodshed on either side, no Niskaan pride dented, as there would have been if they’d reclaimed their man by force.

But at least busting in with force would have been honest; an outcome Archer could have quantified, pointed to the consequences of, and learned to live with. But would a cleaner means have justified a messier end? Archer just didn’t know, and felt entangled in his own thoughts, trapped in a web of truths which turned into lies.

 _Is this what it’s like?_ He thought at Malcolm. _Were you trapped too? Or are you part of the trap?_

Malcolm was not restful even now, his eyes flickering beneath his lids, his muscles twitching.

 _I was counting on you to make this right. Not give me, ‘I’m sorry sir, it’s classified’._ Cringing in that Niskaan chair, with his eyes wide enough to let ghosts in. That wasn’t him.

Phlox had followed them both to the bedside, and was hovering with purpose.

“Is he cogent?” Archer asked him, quietly. “I mean, could you have a conversation with him?”

“I’m not waking him up,” Phlox said, in the same tone that had made Trip tiptoe.

“No, no,” Archer felt backfooted. Felt a stab of remorse at being framed as the enemy here. He softened his tone further. “I was just thinking about something he said to me yesterday. Wondering how seriously I should take it.”

Trip looked round at that, but his expression was too horribly hopeful, and Archer couldn’t look at him.

“Ah.” Phlox wandered back to his desk, and Archer followed. “I couldn’t tell you that, Captain. We’ve conversed, after a fashion, today. He’s been more coherent at some points than others. But, humans quite simply can’t function without sleep. I hope he will be more himself when he wakes up.”

 _Yes, but who’s that going to be?_

Archer forgot to ask for anything for his pain, in the end. Maybe that was for the best; he didn’t want his edges numbed. He left to go shower and change, and took with him the image of Malcolm, passed out with his hair all mussed, twitching under the hold of some dream.

Back in his quarters, he got down on the floor to say hello to Porthos. The beagle was warm with sleep, and wriggly with greeting. Archer was grateful to have someone uncomplicated to come home to, and he stayed down and made a fuss of him until even Porthos got bored and started bringing him toys.

Archer rolled his ball across the floor in a half-hearted game. It was all very well being pissed, he thought, but then what? Call Harris up and tell him he was pissed? Harris would laugh. And if Malcolm stuck to his story in court, Archer couldn’t even contradict him. He had nothing to prove a connection to Harris, or that the Section even existed. He’d make himself sound insane.

And even if – _if_ – Malcolm would back Archer up, things would hardly be better. Malcolm would talk himself into a cell, Harris had said, and it might have been scaremongering, or it might have been true, but either way Starfleet wasn’t going to want to listen. They wouldn’t want to jeopardise their Section’s work, or be held accountable for it. If Archer couldn’t prove the connection, all he’d achieve would be proving Harris right.

And hell, could he even be certain himself of what had happened? Perhaps they really were paranoid, him and Fiest both. Perhaps he’d never know for sure. That would be the worst, living forever with doubt.

Archer’s back twinged again as he rose from the floor, and he winced to himself, and rubbed it. Hot shower time. He’d hardly been in his quarters over the last few days, only grab sleep, change, and visit Porthos, and the place was a mess. _Looks like a bombsite_ he told himself wryly. It smelled like one too. Yesterday’s uniform still lay flung across his chair, bringing the scent of brick dust and Niskaan rain into the room.

He picked it up to toss it down the laundry chute, and suddenly froze. Sense memory took hold of him. He remembered standing panting in that alley, with the alien runner pounding off into the night. Wiping blood from his knuckles on his pants, blood that hadn’t seemed like his. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but he’d socked that runner in the nose pretty good…

Quickly, carefully, Archer laid the uniform out over the back of his chair, and lifted a scanner from his desk top. He ran it a few times around the likely area until he found a spot which made it chirrup. Blood traces. _Bingo_. He stared unblinking at the data as it spooled across the screen.

He’d been right. It wasn’t his. But it was human.

Archer crossed the room to the comm in two strides, with Porthos trotting high-tailed by his side. He called Hoshi, made sure she was alone, and then told her, “That call sign you lifted from Lieutenant Reed’s computer. I need you to send it out again.”

 _Let’s see how Harris likes some consequences._

* * *

Enclosed within the curtain, with scrolling monitors and Malcolm, Trip heard rather than saw Archer leave sickbay. Released from the pressure of pretending not to eavesdrop, he slumped a little into his chair. Looking at Malcolm was making him feel uncomfortable. He kind of wanted to shift Malcolm’s limbs around until he looked more at ease, but while Phlox had said _quietly_ and not _don’t rearrange him like furniture_ , Trip suspected the doctor would still consider it a violation of terms.

The curtain twitched behind him, and Phlox himself came to peer at some readings on the screen.

“He’s not likely to wake up soon, you know,” he told Trip.

“I know,” Trip said, wondering if he was about to get his marching orders. But Phlox only nodded, and said;

“Let me know if he pulls his IV out. Again.”

“Sure.”

Phlox moved away, and Trip listened to him pad back across the room, cause some rumpus in one of his cages, and clatter his PADDs as he settled himself at his desk again.

He guessed there wasn’t really a lot of point in his staying. Not like Malcolm knew he was here, and even if he did, he’d probably be suggesting that Trip should piss off by now. _Don’t you have any work to do, Commander?_ or some such. Malcolm only ever called him _Commander_ these days as a mostly affectionate shorthand for _get out my face._ Funny how things changed.

But Trip never paid much attention to such formal hints from Malcolm even when he was conscious, and besides, there wasn’t really anywhere else he felt like being. Nothing to do but busywork in engineering, since the engine was neither going nor broken, the mess hall would be too bright and too busy, and his quarters too quiet and cold. A couple of months ago, he might have stopped by T’Pol’s, but that was another thing which had changed. They hadn’t ended it, exactly, in that there’d been no formal severance, but the tentative connection they had made couldn’t seem to take their combined weight of grief.

Trip supposed it was apt in a way – after all, they hadn’t conceived Elizabeth together either.

It was easy, some days, to tell himself he’d lost nothing. Nothing _else_ , anyway. A child he’d never expected or known; a relationship which had hardly even been one, at least not in the snuggled-up-with-movies-on-the-couch-meeting-the-parents kind of way. It was easy to feel it some days too, as long as he stayed busy. But _some days_ wasn’t every day.

Malcolm kicked in his sleep, and muttered to himself. “Yeah,” Trip sighed at him, since he felt like muttering too. Malcolm, through all this, had always been really great at knowing when not to talk about stuff. Trip could always count on him to hold up his end of a comfortable silence.

And now, Trip feared a new rift in his nominal family more than he cared to admit. Archer had things on his mind, it was plain, and wouldn’t rest until he got satisfaction. The captain could be so single-minded – which was no bad thing in itself, it had got them all through the Expanse, after all, but when it put him at odds with Malcolm, who’d hold to a course through storm, death or torture if he was sure it was the right one…

Trip, finding his metaphors were proving a little too literal, grimaced to himself.

But Malcolm would have to be sure. And it would have to be _right_. Trip knew the fundamental difference between his and Archer’s reasoning was that Trip just didn’t believe Malcolm’s moral compass could take him quite so awry. Malcolm must have had his reasons, for whatever he’d done, and they would have to be sound ones, because this was Malcolm, who thought far too much about everything.

But then, this was _Malcolm_ , who considered being at odds with his CO to be one of the levels of hell, and the very fact that he’d ever even been a covert agent – professionally at odds – felt like uncharted territory to Trip. He’d already known that Malcolm had a better knack for getting into trouble than he’d care to admit to, but even so…

 _Wish I knew what you’d been doing with that knack on Niskaa._

Malcolm was kicking again, and talking in his sleep. Nonsense mostly, but Trip could make out parts that sounded like words. _Proxy_ , and something that sounded like _isotope_ or maybe _ascertain_ , trailing off into a frustrated sigh.

“What’s that?” Trip asked him, not really expecting an answer.

“Can't talk about it,” Malcolm told his pillow.

“Well, you are talking about it,” Trip said. He waited, but got no response.

“But it's okay,” he said, anyway, into the silence. “I won't tell anybody.”

* * *

Archer shut his comm line to Hoshi, and rubbed Porthos absently behind the ears, ideas churning. His first thought was that one of his own crew had betrayed him – _again_ – but a quick comparison with the crew manifest showed the blood traces belonged to no one on board. The questions this raised quickly out-shadowed his relief. Who else could be out this far, and what were they doing on Niskaa?

 _Dirty work_ , Archer thought, which reminded him that he ached, and felt filthy. He went for his shower, and scrubbed himself raw. Standing under the hot water, he tried telling himself he’d been right to ask Harris to intervene – not because he believed it, but to see if he could live with it. But the notion, that he could put all this aside, and move forward in silence, didn’t sit right in his stomach. Harris, sitting worlds away behind his screen, thought he was untouchable. But Archer was ready for him this time.

And he didn’t have to stay ready long. He barely had time to dry and dress before his screen flickered, and Harris’s face appeared.

“Mission successful?” Harris asked, as though enquiring about a sports score. Archer could tell from his eyes he already knew the answer. He must have good contacts at Starfleet Command.

“Let’s see,” Archer said, carefully. “You put lives in danger. You manipulated people. You jeopardised the peace on a volatile world. If you call that successful…”

“I do,” Harris said. He didn’t look in the least bit put out. In fact, he looked positively comfortable. “We were very careful the Niskaans wouldn’t go blaming each other,” he said, mildly. “If anything, blaming the Thrallians might help them feel more united. It’s amazing what having a common enemy can do.”

 _At least he’s not trying to deny it._ Archer eyed his face with distaste, and wondered how the man lived with himself. If he really felt no pangs of conscience, or if he’d just trained himself to hide it. Hell, it wasn’t like Archer had never made a hard decision himself, but he couldn’t just switch it off after.

“You were damn lucky,” Archer said. “Did you know we nearly caught hold of your very careful operative?”

The scenario had popped into his head in the shower, and, despite the hot water, given him chills. Cornering that runner in the alley, but this time, Archer’s tackle hit home, and they both went over. Archer rolling on top and pinning the man, holding him down on the wet ground – and then peeling his mask off to expose a human face. Archer would have looked like such a damn idiot, with Rasak beside him.

“But you didn’t,” Harris said. “No harm done.”

“ _Harm_ ,” Archer spat, and then swallowed back his tone. “There’ll be consequences somewhere. Someone’s going to suffer for what you’ve done.” He’d told himself this in the shower too. “What about those Thrallians on that colony moon, huh? You set them up nicely. What if the Niskaans retaliate?”

“Won’t happen,” Harris said. He oozed complacency. Archer wanted to reach through the screen and shake it out of him. “The Niskaans don’t have the resources to strike back over that distance. And even if they did, those Thrallians are arms dealers. They’re scum. If they do take some flak for this, it’ll still be less than they deserve.”

“I don’t think you get to decide what other people deserve,” Archer told him.

“And I think you’ve got a guilty conscience.” Harris gave him that little half smirk. Pride in his handy work. “How’s that feel? Want to compare?”

Archer did not. But that glimpse of Harris’s ego at work put him on surer footing. Harris liked to bait people. It was part of his trick to confuse them, to make them look away from whatever he was doing – but it was more than that too. He enjoyed it, that little sting of power, and Archer suspected that smugness might expose a need to brag. _So let him. Let’s see what I learn._

“So who did the job?” he asked, casually. “I thought we were the only humans out here.” An image came to him unbidden, of Malcolm in black gloves, careful at his work. Anonymous hands still had to belong to someone.

If Harris was surprised that Archer knew his bomber by species, he didn’t show it.

“Trade routes made it out to that part of space long before you did,” he said. “I know you like to imagine that you’re pioneers –”

“So who?” Archer interrupted, since this line of mockery felt idle.

“Just someone I had in the area.”

“Fiest knew about the Section,” Archer said, watching Harris’s face closely. “He had someone informing him. How’s that for careful?”

Harris, amazingly, laughed. Archer felt like he’d missed a step going down stairs, and had to fight not to show it. “You knew?”

“Let’s just say I saw it coming,” Harris said. He was making a show of trying to contain his amusement.

Archer felt the heat rise to his face, and clenched his fists where Harris couldn’t see them. “How the hell…?” he began, but then he halted. Harris was poking him, he was sure, but that warm knowing in his eyes hadn’t changed, that security that came from secrets. Archer made a leap.

“It’s the same guy,” he said. “Your guy. _Your guy_ was giving information to Fiest?” He felt foolish saying it, it seemed so outlandish, but Harris smirked along as he spoke, and Archer knew that he was bang on. “Did you tell him to do that?” he burst out.

“No, I did not tell him to do that.” Harris spoke as though Archer were stupid. “But I knew he would, and I knew it wouldn’t hurt. He had to protect himself, after all, and that kept a lid on how much he could tell Fiest. I bet he got in Fiest’s pocket just enough to keep safe. It really would have screwed up our plans if he’d been picked up as an illegal alien.”

“He did it for cover?”

“Cover, cash, and he gets a kick out of sticking his middle finger up at me while he works sometimes. But he got the job done.” Harris smiled at Archer as though he were relating the exploits of some eccentric mutual friend.

“And what about Malcolm?” Archer demanded. “Your guy gave Fiest just enough to know how much he needed that confession. No wonder –” But he checked himself. _No wonder Fiest tried to wring a story out of him,_ he’d been going to say, but he didn’t know how much Harris knew about Malcolm’s condition. Probably everything that had been in Archer’s report to Starfleet, but still, it felt like exposing a weak flank to call attention to it.

“You don’t give a crap about that, do you?” he snarled instead, knowing Harris would find him self-righteous, and would feed off that.

“Oh, don’t get over-excited,” Harris said. _Perfect_. “He’ll live. I don’t suppose it made things much worse. I understand Agent Fiest had quite the reputation, back in the bad old days. If Gruun fires him for embarrassing him over this, I’d call that a win for the new Niskaa.”

“You’re unbelievable!” Archer let out a controlled explosion. “I don’t know how you can sit there and pretend you’re in control, when your own guy is double-dealing you!”

Harris showed him a neat line of teeth in a suddenly humourless grin, and leaned forward intently.

“Call this a leadership tip,” he said. “Control is a double-edged sword. If you don’t give a little – or let them think you’re giving a little – people start concentrating more on resenting you than they do on doing their job. See, my guy on Niskaa probably stayed focused better for having the chance to misbehave, and now next time I need him, he’ll feel well-disposed because he thinks he can play me.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Archer aimed for wounded sarcasm. “But I don’t need to manipulate my people to stay in command.”

“Ah, come on,” Harris sat back again, his attitude suddenly man-to-man. “You do. All leaders do. We’re naturals at it. Difference between us is I’m not so easily disappointed. I understand people are their own worst enemies, all of them. They screw up, they sabotage themselves, they can’t see the big pictures, they can’t get past their own emotions…”

“So you recruit crooks, screw-ups and mercenaries, because it doesn’t matter, is that it?”

“Is that really what you think of Reed?” Harris asked. Archer gave him a hard look. He hadn’t been thinking of Malcolm, in fact. He couldn’t fit him in this picture at all, still – but Harris had plainly been able to.

“And no, I don’t,” Harris was continuing. “I just look on people’s flaws as positives. For my purposes, anyway. I learn about my people, and then I put them in situations where their flaws might end up working out for us. Didn’t my guy make Fiest look like an idiot, dropping hints he couldn’t prove? Wasn’t that helpful?”

Archer couldn’t concede. “Your Section must be rotten from the inside,” he said. “Without loyalty, without trust. That control you have is an illusion.”

“Not at all. I trust people. But I trust them to behave like themselves, not to do what they’re told. Look at you and your man Reed.” He showed that line of teeth again. “See, Reed, he follows orders, except when he doesn’t. That’s all you need to know about him. That, and if you leave him to his own devices, sometimes he’ll make a decision you never could have ordered him to. It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“Not the word I’d choose.” Archer’s mouth tasted bitter. A part of him wanted to rally on Malcolm’s behalf, but he was ready to accept now that Harris really did know him better.

“I don’t think you’re as smart as you think you are,” he told Harris. “You’d have blood on your hands right now if you hadn’t gotten lucky. Malcolm’s still under charges, and he’s going to stand trial in a Starfleet court. There’s a very good chance your name might get mentioned.”

“Didn’t we do this before?” Harris affected impatience – or was it affected? Archer watched him closely. “You want him to confess espionage, subterfuge, to a Starfleet court? What’s the sentence for treason these days? Fifteen to twenty?” He shook his head. “Reed won’t change his story from the one he told the Niskaans.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Archer said. “I’m not counting on him. See, I’ve got DNA. And not the Thrallian stuff you planted. Real DNA.”

Harris didn’t look much impressed at this, but Archer noticed the glint in his eye had gone missing. “I can prove there was a human on Niskaa,” he pushed on. “One who never should have been there. Seems to me your survival relies on complacency. But I think maybe I could shake that. Start seeding doubt, feeding fires. Get people asking questions that Starfleet can’t ignore.”

Harris gave a small shrug.

“I bet I can identify your guy too,” Archer pressed. “Do you want his name out there? Could I tie him to you?”

“He’s not even Starfleet,” Harris said, sounding dismissive, but Archer pounced on this snippet and filed it away for later. The mystery runner wouldn’t be in the database then. They’d have to check civilian records back on Earth. Phlox had contacts in San Francisco, perhaps he could get an ID for the DNA.

“That wasn’t an answer,” he pointed out. Harris narrowed his eyes.

“What’s your point, Captain? Did you call up to gloat, or do you want something from me?”

Archer turned his thoughts over. “What if I did want something?” he asked, cautiously.

Harris didn’t move, except to raise an eyebrow in sceptical expectation. But he was listening. Prepared to deal. Archer peered at him closely, and felt himself start to grin.

“I can nail you,” he said. “I know it. If I wasn’t onto something here, you would have thrown that straight back in my face. That’s all I wanted to know.”

If Harris had an answer, Archer never heard it. He leaned forward, making sure the last thing Harris saw was his triumph, and he blanked the screen.

* * *

Trip, back in his quarters, had a night full of fitful dreams. He dreamt that they’d gone down to Niskaa like heroes, guns drawn, ready to fight the good fight, completely unknowing that Malcolm had been quietly put to death days ago, and all that was left to collect was a corpse. Still, the exchange was made with stifled politeness, Niskaans and Starfleet alike with their heads bowed in reverent regret, and Trip found he couldn’t engage his tongue in anger. As their funeral party left Chibnia, holes opened up in the city around them, but no one else would pay attention.

Trip woke clutching at air, and then lay still on his sheets, staring at the dark. He managed, with effort, to make irritation with his own subconscious his overriding emotion.

He couldn’t face breakfast in the mess hall after, but he called into sickbay on his way to engineering. He found Malcolm had outslept him. Trip put his head around the curtain, watched Malcolm’s chest rise and fall for a couple of seconds, and then slunk a little guiltily away.

Enterprise got underway that morning, heading out from Niskaa, and the whole ship seemed to shudder with relief. Trip was busy with the engines, and by the time he saw a window, they’d gone to warp, and the planet had fallen away. He felt restless, like he’d missed a chance for closure. The jagged-edged holes in his dream were still on his mind, and he thought some perspective might have helped him to work through it. Space had that effect on planets – made it look like nothing down there mattered much.

Unless you were looking at a great black strip torn out of Florida, of course. The hole in the square in Chibnia was nothing compared to that, less than a pin prick, but it had hit him in the same place, all the same. The idea you could just be going about your business, imagining objects around you to be fixed, and all your tomorrows lined up waiting, and then BOOM.

The captain was practical but distant that morning. People asked Trip how Malcolm was, and Trip told them he was tired, and a bit banged up, but that he’d be fine. He didn’t really know if this was lying.

Malcolm slept for twenty-six hours straight in the end, by which time Trip had finished his shift, and eaten a meal, and felt a safer distance away from bottomless holes – until he saw Malcolm, who looked like he’d spent the last six days staring into one.

“Hey,” Trip said, in his best sickbay voice. “You look better.”

He felt like he’d earned the sceptical look that Malcolm gave him. Malcolm scrambled to sit up on the bed. Trip helped him prop himself up, and then handed him a glass of water when his first attempt at speaking turned to coughing. Malcolm’s fingers weren’t working right, so Trip kept his own hands closed over the glass to help him drink. That Malcolm’s first words weren’t a heated objection to this worried him as much as anything.

“Thanks,” Malcolm said, hoarsely. He looked like he’d been punched in both eyes, they were so ringed with shadow. “And thank you,” he added, unexpectedly. “I… well, I don’t really remember yesterday much, but I do remember you were there.”

“Oh.” Trip felt absurdly touched, and immediately forgave him for not yelling about the glass. “Sure,” he said, taking his seat. “Least I could do. You scared the crap out of me, if I’m honest.” There’d been a moment, trying to hold him during the seizure, when Trip had had to stamp down on the fear that Malcolm might just die under his hands.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t come here to demand an apology.” Trip smiled, the relief of getting to say it wash over him. “But I’d prefer you didn’t do it again.”

He was angling for Malcolm to smile back, but Malcolm just put on that worried look he wore whenever he analysed an off-the-cuff remark too closely.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked. “Phlox hasn’t. Not details, anyway.”

Trip explained, and Malcolm nodded, and said, “I see,” then went far too quiet.

“I think you see something I don’t,” Trip remarked, watching him. Malcolm was still blinking too much, and was restless where he sat, working his damaged hands, fidgeting with nothing.

“Is the captain… I mean, I haven’t seen the captain,” Malcolm said. He may have been aiming for casual, but he missed by a long shot.

“He came by before, but you were asleep,” Trip said, since this wasn’t actually a lie. Malcolm probably didn’t know then, that he was still going to have to face trial. Trip was considering how best to try and broach this, but then his thoughts rebelled. _Captain wants this done, he can damn well do it himself. I’m not helping._  
Poor Malcolm, he looked all bottled up and ready to burst.

“The captain told me about this Section stuff,” Trip said, wanting to make it easier for him to talk if he wanted. “About your shady past.”

Malcolm gave Trip that over-analysing look again, then turned the same look on his own hands.

“What did he say?” he asked.

“He told me what happened at Qu’vat colony. And that stuff about Terra Prime.” Trip paused. “And that you tried to tell him the Section were involved here. I mean… you did, right? With your fingers? Three and one?”

Malcolm nodded miserably.

“And then,” Trip said, “he said that when he went to see you, you told him you couldn’t say any more. That it was classified. I told him, I thought you probably didn’t mean it. I mean, you weren’t well…”

“I meant it,” Malcolm said softly.

“Oh.” The landscape of everything Trip thought he knew shifted.

“I don’t know if I still mean it,” Malcolm added, even more softly. The landscape shifted back again, a little battered.

“Oh. Well, I’m sure if you explained to him. He’s… well, I think he doesn’t know what to think.”

Malcolm met his eye, and Trip tried to look positive, but he knew he didn’t pull it off. Malcolm lay back on the bed, and covered his face with his hands.

“You shouldn’t have come back for me,” he said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Trip said. It came out harsher than he meant it, but Malcolm’s tone hit him right in the chest. Not just Malcolm being Malcolm, which he’d been prepared for. Something worse.

“You don’t know.” Malcolm eyes peered between his fingers, far too wide.

“Hey, take it easy,” Trip tried to soothe, edging closer. “You don’t have to worry about this right now.”

But he might as well have told the rain it didn’t have to fall. From the look Malcolm gave him through his fingers, he wasn’t hearing anyway.

“Fiest knew,” Malcolm announced, lowering his hands abruptly. “He knew you’d do this. That’s why… he must have known he wouldn’t get much time with me. He knew I was lying, he knew right from the start.”

Trip blinked. Felt like he ought to feel less surprised. He’d known, after all, that there must be dishonesty somewhere.

“I don’t think that justifies torture,” he said, carefully, not sure how to even tackle the rest.

That did get Malcolm’s attention. He stopped and frowned.

“I don’t think…” he said, and then shook it off. “That’s not the point.”

He didn’t seem about to explain what the point was, though. Trip wanted to reach and touch him, but Malcolm’s pose was practically screaming not to. He felt helpless. He’d known Malcolm wouldn’t recover completely overnight, of course, but he’d been hoping that he’d sleep _something_ off. _Maybe I should go,_ he thought, suddenly. _Phlox can come and knock him out again, and he can sleep until he’s really back with us._ He looked over his shoulder, but the doctor wasn’t in sight.

And Malcolm suddenly seemed possessed with some sense of urgency that his worn out body couldn’t articulate. He kicked and scrambled at the bed covers, trying to catch hold of something, but his fingers wouldn’t close. Trip felt a wash of guilt for wanting to leave, like it being hard to watch was the worst part.

“Don’t.” He stood, and took Malcolm’s wrists gently. “You’ll hurt yourself.” But Malcolm fought him, and his struggle took him half way off the bed. Trip had to push him back on. Malcolm felt light as air, as though he’d lost all his substance in six days. Trip nearly did shout for Phlox then, but the quality of Malcolm’s distress, already dream-like, checked him. He thought of his own dreams, and felt a creeping horror at the thought of being trapped there by drugs.

“Just lie down,” he said lamely instead. “Come on, Malcolm. Everything’s going to be okay.”

With a heave of his chest, Malcolm stilled, though it probably had more to do with exhaustion than anything Trip had said.

“I’m sorry,” Trip said, as he released him. He wasn’t really sure what for, but something in Malcolm’s face compelled it. Malcolm, eyes fixed on the ceiling now, gave a harsh bark of a laugh.

“ _You’re_ sorry,” he said. His voice cracked, but he couldn’t seem to move enough to cough. “You know,” he croaked, “I couldn’t have picked Niskaa off a star chart before this month.”

“Me either,” Trip said, because he could think of nothing else. Malcolm laughed again, without looking at him.

“But it’s the centre of someone’s universe,” he said. “Everywhere is. Fiest said…” He trailed off, his frown like a scar.

Trip tightened his jaw. “That son of a bitch said that he was just doing his job.”

Malcolm snorted. “Can’t argue with that.”

Trip hunted for sarcasm in his tone, but could find none.

“It’s a big planet, you know,” Malcolm went on. His eyes were slightly dreamy. “I thought… well, never mind what I thought. That never seems to end well.”

“You’re being maudlin,” Trip told him, to give him something practical to prop himself up against. “What’s the size of the planet got to do with anything?”

“Hmm?” Malcolm came back from miles away. “Oh. Just that of all the towns in all the world, and I had to walk into his.”

“Eska’s?” Trip asked, tentatively, not sure if he should even be letting Malcolm talk about this.

“Yeah.” Malcolm lapsed into silence, still staring at the ceiling as though it was coming down.

Trip gave himself an internal pinch for wanting to push further out of pure curiosity. _Malcolm tried to confess_ , he remembered, and the thought of how that might have gone made his guts turn cold inside him. But maybe if Malcolm would just explain to him… well, maybe he could make it right, make him see that it really wasn’t that bad. It couldn’t be that bad.

“Look,” Trip began. “I understand you can’t tell me some things. Or you might not want to. That’s fine. But you know, if you do want to talk to me, you can. It’s just you and me here.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure this was true. “And if the captain asks me, you didn’t say anything.”

“Really?” Malcolm rolled his head to look at him. “If he asks you outright, you’d lie to him? Bad habit to get into, Trip. Not one I really want to spread around.”

Trip put his head on one side to meet his eye. He decided Malcolm was channelling that bitter note in his voice in entirely the wrong direction.

“So this is how you former employers work, huh? They dump shit in your lamp, and you just have to deal, and never a word?”

Malcolm made a noise between a laugh and a moan, and checked back on the ceiling. “Yeah,” he told it.

“Sounds to me like they don’t deserve your silence,” Trip said. “Or what you’ve gone through for them.”

Malcolm shook his head emphatically, but he wasn’t agreeing, just rejecting the notion there was anything to even agree with. Silence stretched between them, punctuated by an occasional sharp intake of breath or kick at the bed covers as Malcolm ran through something in his mind.

“You really won’t tell?” he said abruptly. Trip’s head jerked up. His thoughts had been drifting. His heart picked up a notch. For a second, he wanted to take it back, to say, _Nah, you keep it to yourself,_ because the knowledge suddenly felt like it might be dangerous, but Malcolm was asking him for something here…

“On my honour,” Trip said out loud.

“Nothing honourable here,” Malcolm said. He took a deep breath like he was about to dive.

“I sold explosives to Niskaan terrorists.”

“No you didn’t,” Trip retorted fast. His heart had stopped his throat. “That’s not the story. That’s not the whole story. Right?”

“Acetones not naturally occurring on Niskaa,” Malcolm spoke on. “Know how many people Eska killed? He went to prison for eleven. But God knows how many really…”

“It was a set up, though?” Trip cut across him. “Secret Section business? Trying to catch the bad guys?”

Malcolm shook his head, and for a moment, hope died in Trip’s hands – until Malcolm changed his mind, and nodded.

“’Course it was,” he said. He was biting his lip so hard Trip had to lean and stop him.

“How come you didn’t nail him?”

Malcolm laughed hoarsely. “He wasn’t our target.”

Trip’s fingers were cold from touching him. He curled them into a fist.

“Tell me,” he said.

Malcolm coughed for a long time before he began, and all the while he talked, his voice threatened to break him.

“Have you heard of Caeneus colony, on Caeneus Alpha?” he asked.

“It’s a colony?” Trip said. “I thought there was a Starfleet outpost there. Watch station, repairs, right?”

Malcolm smiled, a twist of his mouth with no humour at all. “That was the problem,” he said. “It was a colony first. Settled boomers, mostly. Not many civilians ever get out that far. It wasn’t big, just a couple of hundred permanent residents, and about the same again in itinerants, but they had a strong community. You know boomers.”

“Let me guess. They weren’t very happy when Starfleet moved in.”

“No. The planet had limited natural resources, and they said the base was hogging more than its fair share. Starfleet did a survey, said there was enough for everyone, and thought that settled it. So the settlers started making their feelings known a bit more forcefully.”

He stopped to clear his throat, and Trip turned the images over in his mind. He could just see it. Close-knit frontier families, people who stood their ground against pirates, running up against the scientific logic of Starfleet.

“At first it was only homemade bombs. Messy at short range…” Malcolm paused. “But limited destructive power. Then out of the blue, one day, they rigged a blast that destroyed a building. Not long after, a device was planted on a shuttle visiting the base. It took it back to its ship, and blew a hole in the hull. Killed eight crewmen.”

“Shoot,” Trip said. “I never heard about that. Why didn’t I hear about that?”

Malcolm’s face twisted again. “Starfleet never gave the incident much prominence in its press releases. Because by that time the Section was getting involved, and the Section doesn’t like to have a lot of people looking in its direction.”

Trip absorbed this. It kind of made his teeth itch. “Go on,” he said.

“They started branching out,” Malcolm said. “Attacking other bases, stations, ships. Or at least, we knew it was them, but we couldn’t prove it. According to their supply manifests, and Starfleet’s survey of the planet, the settlers just shouldn’t have had access to that kind of explosive material. So they sat there, claiming innocence. They even suggested it was all a Starfleet plot to get them evicted.”

Trip was just about to snort at that, but then it occurred to him that he was listening to a Starfleet plot that was no less sinister. He thought back along Malcolm’s story instead.

“Itinerants?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “Boomer ships came and went from Caeneus all the time. But of course no one had ‘peroxyacetone’ written on their books, and routine stop-and-searches were turning up nothing. We had to figure out who was moving those explosives in – and taking them back out again. So we set up as suppliers, on a trading station in the system.” His breath hitched for a second.

“So you were selling explosives?” Trip’s mouth had gone dry.

“No!” Malcolm burst out. This seemed to clear his breathing problem. “I was selling duds. By the bloody crate load.” He giggled. Without humour, it was a horrible sound. “I was lucky no one came back to demand a refund with a blunt object before we were done.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Nothing,” Malcolm said. “Nothing went wrong. We made a few dud sales for cover, then this boomer ship called _Heldhaftig_ made contact. Wanted to deal. So we dealt. It couldn’t have gone smoother.”

He had to stop to breathe again.

“But?” Trip prompted, when he’d finished sucking air.

“But, I did have some live stuff. The shipment we sold to _Heldhaftig_ had to be real. They had to be caught red-handed, moving live stuff to Caeneus, we couldn’t afford to give them a legal loophole. Or to expose our own operation. And if I’d been caught out trying to sell duds before we closed the deal, it would have blown everything.” Malcolm turned his eyes to Trip. They looked pleading. “So if somebody wanted to look too closely before I made a sale…”

“Let me guess,” Trip said, taking up the weight of the words from him. “You met this guy Eska. And he wanted to look too closely?”

Malcolm nodded. He looked ready to throw up. “Even then,” he said, “I thought about trying to get rid of him. But _Heldhaftig_ was in orbit, we were so close. And they were getting bolder. Three people dead on Arcturus, only a week before. Eska was hanging around, and if he’d made a scene, he would have spooked them, I would have lost my shot. So I told myself…” He swallowed. “I told myself… I had a chance to stop the boomers. Here and now. But if I turned Eska away, it wouldn’t stop him. He’d just go to another supplier.”

“He would have, you know,” Trip broke in, to save him.

“Oh, come on Trip!” Malcolm burst out. “ _Really?_ ” He sounded more like himself than he had all day, but that only made him harder to argue with. “That’s no excuse,” he insisted. “ _Heldhaftig_ ’s captain could say that – if he didn’t run that cargo, someone else would. And they would. But he’s still a scumbag. He still made that choice.”

“Did you get him?” Trip asked, at a loss.

“Oh yes,” Malcolm said, with dry triumph. “He’s rotting in prison back on Earth now, far as I know. _Nothing went wrong._ ”

Malcolm went very still then, his hands limp in his lap. It was Trip who kept shifting, trying to find another angle.

“Look,” he said. “Malcolm… I can’t pretend I like it. I don’t like it. But you guys did your jobs.” Malcolm snuck him a pointed look, and Trip winced. “Okay,” he said. “But come on. You’re not Fiest, you did this to save lives. You did save lives. I know you’d never do that if you didn’t think you had to.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm said, hollowly. “I thought I had to. And I even felt bad… Really bad. But I never felt bad _enough_.” His voice cracked. “And now the Niskaans, they don’t even blame each other. They won’t hate. They don’t want to.” Malcolm’s eyes changed. “They should want to. Fiest’s the only sane one out of the lot of them.”

“No,” Trip told him.

“You should have left me there.”

“No,” Trip said again. “We shouldn’t. Fiest was never going to get anyone justice. And hey, who are you to tell the Niskaans how to deal? They’re the ones who lived with this. And they wanted to move on. They forgave Eska, they made him a free man.”

“Eska wasn’t like me. At least he believed in something for Niskaa. I mean, I only met the man once. Twice. Second time didn’t last long…” Malcolm snorted, then seemed to run out of steam. He let his head drop. Trip leaned closer to him, and put his hands on the edge of the bed, but it didn’t stop him from feeling like they were each alone in the room.

“I don’t know what to do for you,” he said, honesty being all he had to offer. “Malcolm, if you want me to judge you here, forget it. You’ve got that covered yourself. I’d say that I forgive you, but I guess it wouldn’t mean much, since it wasn’t me who was hurt.”

Malcolm raised his head slowly. There was a new light in his eyes, but it wasn’t a fresh one. It was spiteful, like he’d died, and something else had crawled inside.

“I bet I’ve killed somebody’s sister,” he said.

Trip’s fingers tightened on the edge of the bed. “Don’t do that,” he said.

“Trip –”

“Stop it. Just stop it. I’m not doing this with you.” For a moment, Trip felt dizzy, like his body was rushing away, the height of space. Holes were opening up at his feet again.

Malcolm shook his head, put his face in his hands, and came apart.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked between sobs, over and over, shaking hard enough to break.

“Don’t,” Trip said again, hardly knowing what he was saying _don’t_ to. He got up from his chair and scrambled to get hold of him. Malcolm was bony and tense, all angles, but Trip pulled him close – made him, though Malcolm tried to fend him off with useless hands.

“You son of a bitch,” Trip told him, because he was crying too. He was close enough he could have strangled Malcolm instead of hugging him. Close enough that he didn’t have to look at him. There was no other way right now, Trip knew, that he could have stood to stay in the room with him.


	7. Chapter 7

When Malcolm had cried until he couldn’t any more, he felt out of options. Trip stayed with him for a long time without speaking. He disentangled himself from Malcolm with his own eyes wet, then leant on the edge of the bed, then sat back in his chair, growing further away with the silence. Malcolm watched the ceiling, his eyes feeing numb. He knew that he ought to apologise for bringing up Trip’s sister, but he couldn’t find it in him to excuse himself – or to ask Trip to make another effort at forgiveness. He’d gone too far already, and he couldn’t keep taking Trip with him.

Sleep came and took him without his permission, and when he woke up, Trip was gone – but whether there was a note of finality to that; whether he’d _gone_ gone, or just gone to eat, sleep or work, Malcolm didn’t know.

Phlox hoved into his line of sight, and asked how he was feeling.

“Bit better,” Malcolm grunted, since Phlox wouldn’t be appeased by the truth. He hadn’t moved on the biobed since he’d woken, and felt like he’d landed there from a great fall, his limbs splayed and shattered.

“Glad to hear it,” Phlox said. His cheery tone was like a series of hammer blows. He fiddled with the monitor. Malcolm rolled his eyes to watch him.

“I’d rather you remain here, just for the time being, until I’m certain the risk of seizure has passed,” Phlox told him. “But there’s no physical reason you have to stay in bed. You can get up, stretch your legs a bit, if you like.”

Malcolm turned this option over. It seemed remote and unlikely. His thoughts strayed to Trip again, and dread twisted in his chest. He felt like he’d moulded some malevolent creature in his hands and released it, and now it was beyond his control. Trip had promised he wouldn’t tell, but that had been before he’d known…

Maybe he had told the captain. Maybe he was telling him right now.

Malcolm sat up abruptly, and swung his legs off the bed. Phlox turned quickly, and caught him by the shoulders.

“Steady,” he said. “Take it slowly.”

“Oh God,” Malcolm gasped. All the blood had left his face and limbs. “Um,” he said, in warning, but Phlox was ready with a stainless steel bowl, and Malcolm was able to throw up quite neatly, considering. He had to cling unashamedly to the doctor after, his eyes clenched closed, sickbay rolling around him like a ship’s deck in a storm.

“Better?” Phlox asked, after a short time. Malcolm opened his eyes and found that it was. Things still felt decidedly odd from this angle, but Phlox removed his hands and Malcolm stayed upright, perched quite normally on the edge of the bed.

“There,” Phlox said, looking pleased, as though this were his own feat of balance. “Just give yourself a little time to re-adjust. There’s no rush.”

Malcolm nodded, mostly to make Phlox stop looking at him. The doctor moved off into the room, going about his business, tactfully not watching, but remaining close at hand.

Malcolm’s hands still felt useless, heavy and blunt at the end of his arms, like they’d been bound in boxing gloves. He braced his wrists against the edge of the bed for traction, and lowered himself inch by inch, until his feet found the floor.

Once there, he took a few careful steps. Immediately, this was a problem. If he could move, if he could act, then he had to do _something_. What, he wasn’t clear on, but he couldn’t just drift around sickbay like a ghost, and then go back to bed, and be pawed at by Phlox again. He pressed his wrists together, suddenly aware of the absence of restraints there.

“Can I go back to my quarters?” he blurted. Since he wasn’t safe in sickbay, where anyone might walk in.

“Not just yet,” Phlox told him, with an automatic air. He was shaking what looked like worms into an aquarium, making the water boil in frenzy. “If you’d like to freshen up, you can use the shower in decon,” he suggested, without looking up.

Malcolm’s breath snagged in his throat.

Phlox caught him out the corner of his eye, and paused, worms poised. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

Malcolm had to fight the tendons in his neck to nod. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Everything’s fine.” A shower. How hard could showering be? He showered every day, normally. He was fastidious. He’d never drowned yet. He looked around himself. Tried to orientate himself towards decon. He seemed to be lost.

Phlox was suddenly beside him. Malcolm jumped at finding him there, and then moved quickly to cover for it, striking out in what turned out to be the right direction. Phlox kept pace with him to the door.

“Do you need help?” he asked. “It’s alright if you do.”

He reached to touch Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Malcolm blurted, and ducked away. Phlox stopped with his hand short, but didn’t withdraw it. Malcolm covered his mouth. Not his best impression of fine.

Phlox recomposed himself, and, when he spoke, his voice gave no hint he thought anything was wrong.

“Perhaps we’re overdoing it a little. No rush, hmm? Why don’t you come and sit down?”

This suggestion was so banal as to feel absurd, and Malcolm had to look away. Phlox clearly didn’t understand who he was speaking to. Again, the compulsion seized him that he needed to be elsewhere; he had to stop it – stop _something_ – or else he had to escape. He felt late, and his back prickled like things were going on behind it.

He took a step backwards, drawing his arms across himself.

“Can I go back to my quarters?” he asked again. He could think of nowhere else. He was still trapped on the ship, even if he left sickbay. He marked his route to the door with the corner of his eye, but carefully didn’t look right at it.

“What’s the matter?” Phlox asked gently, but he was watching Malcolm warily.

“Nothing,” Malcolm said, forcing words out past his teeth. “Nothing is the matter. I just don’t need to be here.”

“I’m not sure I agree.” Phlox took a small step closer, and started to raise his hands, palms open, but stopped abruptly when Malcolm shifted his stance and closed his fingers. Phlox surely couldn’t imagine he was dangerous, Malcolm thought; he couldn’t even make a proper fist.

“Please,” he said, trying to sound as normal as he could. “I can come back later. I will, if you want me to. But I need to go.”

He edged backwards as he spoke, and Phlox kept coming, into the distance between them, hands open and wide, right across Malcolm’s escape route. Malcolm bumped into something behind him; spun to find he’d hit the edge of a work surface; spun back, arms raised, to find Phlox had stopped when he had, and he was striking at the air.

He was dangerous. It hit him in a rush, seeing Phlox before him. He’d nearly got the doctor killed before, when he’d been taken by the Klingons, and Malcolm had sabotaged their rescue mission. A few short months ago too. He couldn’t even lean on the excuse of years, of being a different person now.

“Listen,” he said, starting to slip sideways along the edge of the work surface. “Listen…” His hand trailed along the top, and he tried to close his fingers on something – sharp things, blunt things; he couldn’t see what, since he couldn’t take his eyes off Phlox, and he wasn’t really sure what for, just that he needed something to put between them.

“Malcolm,” Phlox said to him. This hit a dissonant note that almost checked him, since Phlox never used his first name, but then his clumsy hand fumbled, and objects went crashing; clattering metal, shattered glass.

Malcolm jumped half out his skin, and crammed his hands guiltily under his armpits.

“I’m sorry if I alarmed you,” Phlox said. Malcolm fought the urge to laugh in his face. He’d run out of work surface, and found himself in a corner. He braced his back against the wall, raised his hands to Phlox again, then brought them to his face, then had to lower them, since that left his body exposed.

“Listen,” he said, again. “I don’t think I said, I don’t think I ever said… that I was sorry. That time. I don’t even know why – really. Force of habit. I thought they’d get the job done. That we would. And we did. But we could have got you killed…”

Phlox kept stepping through his words towards him, making reassuring sounds, one hand half behind his back. He’d lifted something from the work surface as he’d passed it, Malcolm was sure, and he kept his eyes fixed on the doctor’s hidden hand while he babbled on across him.

“I… that’s just what we’re like, you know. Don’t really think about that kind of thing. Little people. Consequences. I was so stupid… and then I couldn’t even do the job right…”

“You don’t need to worry about that now,” Phlox was saying, but there was no recognition in his eyes. He didn’t know what Malcolm meant.

Malcolm drew his fists to his chest. “Please,” he said. “I’m sorry, I am, but I have to go…”

Phlox halted again, just out of range. He spread his hands again, not even trying to hide the hypospray he now held in one of them. “I would be remiss if I let you go in this condition,” he said, softly. “Please, come and sit down. I won’t touch you. You can let me know what’s comfortable. Here, look –” He stepped back.

Malcolm bolted into the suddenly open space, but his muscles engaged a fraction too late, and Phlox moved to intercept him. Malcolm tried to duck around him, but his shoulder hit the wall, and jarred him so hard that his hands throbbed and his head spun.

Phlox still didn’t grab him, though he was looming close enough now to cover all of Malcolm’s exits.

“Lieutenant,” he said, his voice firming. “Just imagine if I had to call security to keep you here. You’d be mortified later. I know you've been hurt, but not by me, and I'm not going to hurt you now. Surely we have a little trust between us... after all these years? Hmm?”

Being talked to like a child helped; it made him feel stupid, and his shame was the only thing strong enough to master his panic. Malcolm tucked himself up against the wall, and wrapped his arms around himself to hold himself down. There was a pressure in his head which kept on building. His teeth and his throat were clenched too hard to exhale; he had to force the air trapped in his lungs out through his nostrils. _Just to help you calm down_ , he heard Phlox say, and felt the hypospray on his neck, and then all the air left him, and the room spun away. And after all that, it was okay, really. He hadn’t wanted to be here anyway.

The last thing he knew was that Phlox caught him before he hit the floor.

* * *

 _Gerben Deiter, b. 2120, Den Helder_ , Archer read. He had to flick a button to translate the rest of the screen into English. It was all medical records: childhood vaccinations, recurring conjunctivitis, a distal radius fracture – but nothing that seemed remarkable, except that the records only ran to 2134, and then stopped. Archer raised his eyes to Phlox.

“This is the guy?” he said.

“The blood sample you gave me, yes.” Phlox confirmed. He was standing in front of the desk in Archer’s ready room. Archer glanced to the window to watch stars flick by, before asking;

“Do you notice anything interesting about him? Unusual?”

“Not particularly,” Phlox said. “Except that you have his blood sample at all.”

Archer’s mouth twisted wryly.

“Gerben Deiter gets places he really shouldn’t be,” he said. “Why do the records stop?”

“Left Earth, I imagine.”

“Oh.” The explanation seemed mundane in comparison to Archer’s imaginings: faked deaths, deletions, tampered records. He placed the PADD to one side.

“How’s Lieutenant Reed?” he asked. The question felt oddly formal on his tongue.

“In some distress. Or he was. Currently, he’s sedated.”

Archer raised an eyebrow, and Phlox gave him a fuller account. Archer listened, feeling heavy and helpless and guilty before Phlox was done. “Did he tell you what the Niskaans did to him?”

“I’ve yet to find him in a fit state to be asked,” Phlox said. “I’m not clear on precisely what triggered his behaviour today. He objected to being touched, but I had been touching him only moments before without an apparent problem.” He paused. “I had just suggested he might like to shower. I noticed when I first examined him, he seemed a little water-aversive. But he was aversive to most things at that point.”

An unpleasant possibility crawled over Archer’s skin.

“You think they used water on him? Tried to drown him?”

“Forced immersion,” Phlox said, and his clinical air felt too blunt. “It might explain some of his symptoms. His breathing difficulties, the infection on his chest.”

Archer pressed his teeth together. He wanted to come eye to eye with Fiest again, wipe that arrogance from his face all over.

“Malcolm is aquaphobic,” he told Phlox. It felt strange to say it out loud, disconnected from the man himself. Malcolm had never alluded to his phobia in Archer’s presence again since his disclosure on the hull.

“Ah,” Phlox said. “I wasn’t aware of that. It isn’t on his records.” His tone was faintly accusing, as though this was an omission.

Archer’s eyes went to the window again. It looked empty without Niskaa there, and the absence had an effect on the whole room, like a piece of furniture was missing.

“If he has an existing phobia,” Phlox remarked, “his behaviour may not be meaningful in that regard. It may simply be that the trauma is making him more generally reactive.”

“I hope so,” Archer said. And then thought, _what have we come to, when that’s the best scenario here?_ He looked Phlox in the eye. “Will you call me when he wakes? I want to see him.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Archer looked back to his PADD, Deiter’s records, a silent cue of dismissal – and then looked up again a moment later, when Phlox didn’t move.

“Captain,” Phlox began, hesitantly. “Lieutenant Reed felt the need to apologise to me for something. He spoke of an occasion when – he says – he could have got me killed.”

Archer’s stomach took a turn. He carefully kept his expression neutral, and waited for Phlox to frame the rest of the question.

“I’m not sure what he meant,” Phlox continued. “Perhaps he’s just confused. But I wondered if you might?”

Archer pursed his lips. Phlox, for all his neutral fishing, must have some clue about what Malcolm was alluding to, or he wouldn’t ask. He wondered how best to respond – and then caught himself at it. He’d become so used to framing things with silence. _You’re playing Harris’s game again,_ he told himself. He gestured for Phlox to sit.

“I bet you could guess if you thought,” Archer told him. “Ship gossip being what it is.”

“When I was held at Qu’vat Colony, of course,” Phlox said. “I heard the rumours. Lieutenant Reed was thrown in the brig, something about sabotage.”

“You never asked for an explanation,” Archer said. “You would have had a right to.”

“Since Lieutenant Reed had returned to duty before my release, I assumed it had all been resolved.”

Archer felt a pang at that. He started talking, and gave Phlox a pared down version of the story, explaining Qu’vat, and then Malcolm’s indication that the Section were involved on Niskaa. He did not, with a slight touch of guilt, refer to White River Square, but said that evidence suggested Malcolm had lied to the courts; that when Archer had seen him alone in prison, Malcolm had refused to explain.

“Ah,” Phlox said when he was finished. Archer looked at the streaks of light in the window. “Ah,” Phlox said again.

“You see now why he’s suspended. Why he still has to stand trial,” Archer said, suddenly finding he very much wanted someone to agree with this decision.

“I suppose so,” Phlox said, which didn’t sound quite as certain as Archer had hoped.

“It’s not just that he lied,” Archer insisted. “He made a liar of me too. I was so adamant to Gruun, to Rasak, that he had to be innocent. If they’d found out the truth, how would I have looked to them? How would Starfleet have looked?”

Phlox turned this over. “I’m not sure he really had a choice in this instance, Captain,” he said, hesitantly. Archer shot him a look, but opposition only seemed to put Phlox on surer footing. “Even if you’d known from the start about this… Section? You still would have had to proceed as though you didn’t know. What would have been the alternative?”

“The truth?” Archer suggested, knowing how he sounded to his own ears, but he hated the thought of being knowingly forced to protect Harris.

“If you’ll allow me to offer an outsider’s perspective, I doubt the Niskaans would perceive any difference between the actions of Starfleet and the Section. They would have seen you all as the enemy then. And Lieutenant Reed would have been assumed guilty just by association.”

“I’m not so sure he isn’t,” Archer said.

“Well,” Phlox said, with a small gesture Archer knew to be a Denobulan shrug. “I don’t know the answer to that, Captain. But perhaps you should give him the opportunity to account for himself – in full cogence – before you make your mind up.”

Archer raised an eyebrow. “You’re defending him?” he said. Phlox was making sense, he knew, but trust and betrayal had little to do with plain logic. “You know, he really might have got you killed that time.”

“Captain, you knew that too – and you opted to keep him on board, and in his position, knowing his history of subterfuge. I’m simply honouring your decision,” Phlox said. He’d recovered his unflappable air, as though he found no room for doubt in his reasoning.

“You’re very trusting,” Archer said. “In my decisions. And my honour.” He snorted lightly. “What if I said I might have made a mistake? Then would you have a problem?”

“Don’t imagine I’m dismissing what he did, Captain. I confess, I’m quite taken aback,” Phlox said, though he didn’t look it. “And I don’t quite understand why he did it. I’d like to ask him about it, sometime – when he’s much better. But right now, I’m his doctor, and he’s my patient, and the only problem we have is that he is unwell.”

Of course. Archer stared at the blank surface of his desk. Phlox had his medical ethics to fall back on, just as Trip could view Malcolm as his friend first and foremost. It was easier for both of them to overlook this tangle. Neither of them was going to have to be the one to cut through it.

“Call me when he wakes up,” Archer said to Phlox again, and looked back to his PADD. This time, Phlox took the cue to leave, and Archer sat, scrolling through Gerben Deiter’s unremarkable childhood, and up to the wall of silence in his teenage years.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon ship time when Archer was called into sickbay. He’d spent the intervening hours chasing Gerben Deiter through shipping and settlement manifests, and what turned out to be a lengthy and colourful criminal record, but he’d yet to find the key that would connect him to Harris. His eyes felt numb from staring at screens.

Phlox met him at the door and read him a few house rules about how Archer mustn’t agitate Malcolm, and how he mustn’t stay long. Archer took all this in, and nodded to appease him, but it only added to his perception that this situation was starting to get a little crowded. Trip and Phlox’s defences would mean nothing if Malcolm wouldn’t answer for himself, when the time came.

Malcolm was sitting up in bed behind his curtain, looking tired, his face tight. When he saw Archer, he went very still, as though he’d been caught guilty in the middle of something.

“Captain,” he said. His voice was careful, but not altogether steady. Phlox had followed Archer to the bed side, and Malcolm’s eyes flickered; he was trying to watch both of them.

“Malcolm,” Archer said, finding that for all he’d rehearsed this in his head, he still wasn’t ready. “How are you feeling?”

This didn’t seem to be the question Malcolm was expecting.

“Uh. Better, sir. Thank you,” he said. He didn’t look a lot better, beyond being conscious. Archer caught Phlox’s eye and made a silent request for some privacy. Phlox checked the monitor and reinforced his earlier warnings to Archer with a look before moving away.

Malcolm, Archer saw, had tracked the exchange between them. Archer pulled up a chair, and sat beside him. Malcolm’s eyes dropped to his hands, which were folded in his lap. He looked nothing like the stranger Archer had built him up to be.

“I’m sorry it took so long to get you out of there,” Archer said, suddenly realising this needed saying.

“I know you did your best, sir,” Malcolm said. Archer was reminded of their first prison visit; how Malcolm’s words had been right, but his manner hadn’t.

“I don’t know about my best,” he said softly, unsure for a second if he’d come to accuse or confess.

Malcolm snuck him a look, then fidgeted a bit into the silence.

“Sir,” he said, suddenly. “I’m not sure what happened. Trip told me, but… he said, some alien destroyed the fountain in Chibnia. He said, they said that Eska knew him…”

Archer’s heart dropped.

“So you know about that?” he said. Malcolm swallowed what he’d been about to say, and looked taken aback.

“I didn’t know. I don’t know. But it’s just…” he paused, seeming to want Archer to fill in the gaps for him, but Archer wouldn’t help him. “It’s just you said you talked to Harris, and –”

“And there wasn’t any other alien, was there?” Archer cut in. “That Eska was looking for that night? You knew that already.”

Malcolm’s eyes searched Archer’s face, and then shifted away. “Yes, sir,” he said, quietly.

“Because he was looking for you,” Archer said.

Malcolm was still for a beat, then seemed to judge it safe to nod.

“Did you kill him?” Archer asked. He kept the question low, knowing Phlox would descend if he overheard.

Malcolm’s face flickered into a frown. For a moment he looked almost indignant. “No, sir,” he said. “He tried to kill me.”

There was suggestion in his voice that he’d been over this before, and Archer felt a tug of resentment.

“How am I supposed to know when you’re lying and when you’re not?” he said – quiet, to pull the punch, but Malcolm still shrank a little. Archer exhaled through his nose.

“So what happened?” he asked. “How did you know Eska? Some Section job?”

Another beat of silence, before Malcolm nodded again. Archer wasn’t sure he liked these pauses; he could see Malcolm’s cogs turning, like he was looking for room to avoid the question, or lie.

“What was the job?” he pushed, determined to give him no room, if that was what he was after.

“Sir,” Malcolm said. He shifted on the bed, as though something unpleasant was crawling towards him. “It was years ago. And it was a mistake. I didn’t mean… I mean, I didn’t know that he would be there. I wasn’t trying to keep things from you.” He paused, looking stricken, but it drew out into silence. Archer released his frustration in a sigh.

“Goddammit, Malcolm,” he said, softly. Malcolm shot him a look as though he’d yelled. “I don’t want excuses,” Archer told him. He was tired of chasing doubt, and Harris’s half-truths. He just wanted to know where he stood.

“No, sir,” Malcolm said. His mouth seemed to taste bad.

“I made a deal with Gruun to get you out,” Archer told him, since they couldn’t start to fix this mess with things unsaid. “I promised you’d be tried in a Starfleet court.” He watched Malcolm closely. “Now, given the way they treated you, we have grounds to tell them to stick it. But I’m not sure that’s the right thing to do. The more I dig into this – the more it starts to look like the Niskaans might have had a point. About Starfleet. About me. About you.”

Malcolm’s eyes darted to his, fast, and then back down to his hands, and locked there.

“Are you talking to me here or not?” Archer asked him, more gently. “I can’t tell.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Malcolm said, without moving.

“I keep hearing that. I’m not sure it’s enough. What are you sorry for? Sorry I can’t tell, or sorry you can’t tell me?”

Malcolm shook his head briefly, but his eyes were unfocussed; the action seemed unconnected with anything in the room.

“Sorry for what you’ve done?” Archer hoped to sting Malcolm into defending himself, but the answering silence made his stomach twist. He sat back, and changed tack to contain his frustration.

“Advocate Rasak,” he said. “Did you like him?”

“I… I suppose so, sir.”

“I did. In the end. He loses a lot against people like Fiest, and he could have lost everything helping us, but he still did it. And all on a lie.” The thought of Rasak ever finding out how he’d been used made Archer feel cold with guilt all over.

“I didn’t…” Malcolm began, and then stopped. “I didn’t know,” he finished lamely, but that wasn’t what he’d gone to say. _I didn’t ask you to_ , maybe.

“I get the feeling Harris plays a lot of people that way,” Archer said. “Gets them to betray themselves without even realising they’re doing it. I think he did that to me. Maybe he did that to you, too.”

Malcolm breathed hard through his nose. Archer waited again, wishing he could root for him, but Malcolm wasn’t giving him anything to get behind.

“I think it’s about time Harris got some dirt on him for a change,” Archer told him. “I want this to come out in court. I’ve got some evidence Starfleet can’t ignore.” He paused. Malcolm had thrown him a doubtful look, so fast he almost didn’t catch it.

“Do you think they’ll send you to prison?” he asked, remembering Harris’s threats.

“I don’t know, sir.” Malcolm’s voice stayed bland, but his pose tightened.

“I don’t know either,” Archer said, frankly. “And I don’t want to hand them a scapegoat for Harris’s crimes. But since I don’t know what you’ve done – I don’t know if they can, or if they will. Or even if you deserve it.”

“Captain,” Phlox spoke firmly behind him. Archer raised a hand to him without looking round; wait a minute. Malcolm was staring straight ahead, but his cogs were still turning. Archer found he couldn’t bear to slam the door on him. Malcolm was still deferent to him, and looked physically sick with misery. There must be something they could salvage between them.

On impulse, he leant forward.

“If you won’t say what happened,” he said, “tell me this. You tell me honestly, and I’ll take your word for it. Tell me you don’t deserve to be tried.”

Malcolm looked up then, but at Phlox, though whether he saw the doctor as an ally, or as a new threat walked into his field of vision, Archer couldn’t say.

“Captain,” Phlox said again, quieter, but firmer.

“Don’t look at him,” Archer said quickly to Malcolm. “Look at me. Tell me.”

Malcolm managed to look without meeting Archer’s eye.

“No, sir,” he said, with his throat full of gravel. He swallowed it down.

“No what? You don’t deserve it?” Archer felt his heart rise. He was ready to honour his promise; trade trust for trust, the one thing Harris could never do.

But Malcolm shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said, flatly. “I can’t tell you that I don’t deserve to be tried.”

“ _Captain_ ,” Phlox said, a third time, his tone suggesting he wouldn’t repeat it again. Archer swung to him.

“You going to tell me now he doesn’t know what he’s saying?” he demanded. “He knows.”

“That’s not my concern,” Phlox said, levelly. “It’s time to leave.”

Malcolm’s eyes had returned to his hands.

Archer got to his feet, feeling like he wouldn’t be surprised to find the ground had gone. He reached for some last thing to say; some parting shot, maybe, or some vital phrase that might just leave the door cracked open.

“If you would,” Phlox insisted.

Archer left without finding his words.

* * *

It was two days before Phlox admitted defeat and released Malcolm from sickbay.

At least, Malcolm counted it as a defeat, even if Phlox wouldn’t look at it in those terms. He’d been waging a quiet war against all the doctor’s excuses to hold him, pushing himself to appear well, carefully performing the correct degree of improvement as the days went past.

The motive for his battle plan was simple and animal: he wanted out of captivity. The Niskaans had given him no freedom; Phlox gave him just enough to have room to struggle, which was worse in its own way, made him want to kick and scream. The perpetual obligation to account for his own behaviour was exhausting. At least Fiest hadn’t needed him to explain _why_ he’d hit him in the nose.

Trip wasn’t fooled.

“Don’t bullshit me,” he’d say to Malcolm, in the middle of conversations. “You’re not yourself.”

Malcolm couldn’t really argue with him. It wasn’t even that he agreed, but since he’d made that stab about Trip’s sister, he’d factored Trip into his guilt, and as such he struggled to assert himself against him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” Malcolm had confided to him, after.

“I wasn’t either,” Trip said, frankly. “But not coming would have been sure. I figured I’d keep my options open.”

Archer, on the other hand, had not been back. Often, Malcolm stopped himself, fitfully, feverishly on the brink of asking for him. He slept badly in sickbay, always on a knife edge over who was coming and going. He felt like release had condemned him. And he couldn’t fight the captain’s judgement; he’d conned Archer into standing up for him, when all along Fiest had been right. He’d been a part of the terror on that planet, and that his part had been only peripheral just made it worse. Who was he to decide what Niskaan lives were worth? Fiest’s low, mocking voice kept ringing in his mind; “ _So why?_ ” he taunted. “ _Are you just a bad man?_ ” Malcolm hadn’t thought that he was, but maybe this was just what bad men were.

He was not officially confined to quarters, but he helpfully removed the necessity by confining himself. It did help at first, to be able to switch the lights off, and have his own space, but, although Phlox had told Malcolm the stimulants were out of his system, the sensation that his blood was running too fast had not gone with them. Niskaa fell further behind them with every light year they travelled, but the distance was threatening to snap him.

He soon began to feel crowded in his quarters too, since Phlox intruded regularly on house calls, and Trip’s insistence on not being shut out became almost aggressive. He seemed to have misgivings about Malcolm’s release, or was perhaps a little peeved that Phlox didn’t accept his assessment of _bullshit_ as carrying much medical clout, and he made sure Malcolm knew he had the key code to his door.

Trip often came and talked at him about nothing – random anecdotes, ship gossip – but Malcolm more and more had trouble concentrating, his thoughts forever slipping off down Niskaan streets. Trip would try to catch his attention with questions sometimes – just casual stuff, about himself, where he grew up, his school, his family, if he missed it, but information had to be hauled out of Malcolm on fish hooks. When Trip asked about his own sister, it felt like a trap.

“Why do you want to know?” Malcolm had demanded crossly, to cover his embarrassment at the length of his own hesitation.

“Just trying to get to know you,” Trip shrugged. After four years, that stung.

Panic kept its finger on his pulse, too. A terminal badness had settled on his chest. Once, Malcolm was lying on his bunk, not listening to Trip, who was lounging in his chair, when he found he couldn’t breathe. It came on so suddenly and severely he couldn’t even communicate it, but just lay there with his lungs empty and his throat disengaged until Trip noticed.

Trip broke off speaking, crossed the room to him in a stride, and grabbed his shoulders. Malcolm ducked out from under his hands, rolled off the bed and fetched up panting on the floor, waving his hand in rejection when he saw Trip was going for the comm.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Malcolm snapped when he was able. “Even Phlox says so.”

“What Phlox actually says is that physical symptoms are no less real for having a psychological cause,” Trip said. He wore a faint line down the middle of his forehead, as he often did in Malcolm’s company these days.

Malcolm grimaced at him. Semantics. He’d been idiot enough to mention the tightness in his chest to Phlox, and had gone cold with mortification when the doctor had gently explained to him that there wasn’t an obstruction there. He felt like could have dealt with the physical panic much better if it didn’t keep embarrassing him in front of people.

“Speaking of,” Trip said, when Malcolm had picked himself up again. “He’s going to ask you. If you’d rather talk to someone on Earth, over a comm link. You know, instead of him.”

Malcolm nodded, to show willing, but his insides had knotted. It was beyond him what Phlox – or anyone – hoped to gain, always asking how he felt. He was still alive, after all, with his limbs intact, and his loved ones unburied. He’d inherited the terror in his dreams; he’d never lived with it. Besides, there seemed little point in cultivating good mental health when he had nowhere to take it.

“I told him,” Trip added, with a slightly false note of jocularity, “You could break any shrink before they’d break you.”

“Damn right,” Malcolm said, trying to summon some spirit – then he crawled back into bed. Trip looked pained.

Sometimes, when Trip stopped by, he’d be quiet himself. And sometimes, Trip would talk to him about Lizzie. And Elizabeth. Malcolm put his hands to his face and listened, helplessly at first. He’d wondered at Trip’s motive, if he was trying to prove some point, or felt that Malcolm owed him a captive audience, but in the end, it didn’t matter. These became the conversations Malcolm dealt with best. His interest was real, and he wasn’t being cornered by questions.

Sometimes, they even had moments where they both felt quite normal, but then Malcolm would remember, his thoughts crowding back in hard enough to make him dizzy. He just wanted it to stop, to be beyond the reach of harm, and expectations that he couldn’t meet. Malcolm knew a Starfleet court was never going to play straight with a Section agent, but he supposed it would be better than nothing.

* * *

The shower was a problem. Phlox had tried to broach it with him several times, but Malcolm told him he was being ridiculous, and that there was no problem. Phlox didn’t buy this, but Malcolm pretended that he thought he did, for peace and quiet, and Phlox bought into _this_ pretence – albeit with a slightly patronising air that Malcolm then had to pretend not to notice. In some respects, this little twist of deceit was a comfort. It confirmed what Malcolm thought of himself. He was a liar. One who washed standing up at the sink.

One day, Malcolm woke to find himself bored, restless at confinement, and wanting to pace like a panther. He didn’t quite trust himself in these moods. There was nothing he could do; he couldn’t lie on his bunk, he couldn’t read, and he couldn’t call for help, since he couldn’t name his problem, and besides didn’t trust himself to be around people – or people to be around him.

The bathroom was the only place he had to go. He stared at himself in the mirror, like a stranger, seeing blood, and had to fight to escape his own gaze. Fiest was on his mind again, a presence in the small room with him. The pressure on his chest was building; compulsion was crawling on his skin, and then the shower caught his eye and held it. The worst part, Malcolm thought, was that Fiest hadn’t even been the one who had done this to him, not really. If he hadn’t been such a miserable coward already, it wouldn’t have mattered.

He couldn’t look away then, or let himself walk out of the room unpunished. He stripped himself with gritted teeth, and stepped into the shower, his skin feeling tight. For half a split second, it was like a revelation; it was going to be alright, but then he pressed the button, and the water hit him like a slap. Malcolm jumped backwards out of the stream, hit the cubicle wall, and found he was trapped. He went for the door, but it stuck, so he punched it, and punched it again, water beating his back, and when it flew open, he bolted.

He stopped back in his bedroom, and stood, sucking air, and dripping water on the carpet. The shower was still running behind him, filling the bathroom up with steam. The button was inside the cubicle. He’d have to go back in there, and reach through the water to turn it back off, and the pit in his stomach told him this simply wasn’t an option.

He was stuck. He pulled his clothes back on with performed calmness, to give himself time to think. The fabric clung to him, wet.

And then the door chimed.

Malcolm froze, and held stock still, as though movement might attract whoever it was in.

The door chimed again.

They wouldn’t go away, he reasoned. Whoever it was. The captain had clearance, Trip knew his key code, and Phlox had a medical override, and they all already thought he wasn’t being normal. If he didn’t answer, they’d consider it grounds for invasion.

And then what? They’d find him standing in the middle of the room, hiccupping in horror because he couldn’t face a running tap. _I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t turn my shower off. I’m going to have to move out._ All the blood that had left his body when he’d bolted now rushed back to his face.

The door chimed again.

He had to act quickly. Like throwing himself over the table to break Fiest’s nose; he’d only been able to do it because he hadn’t let himself think. The door chimed again, and the sound was like a starting pistol. Malcolm leapt off his heels, threw himself at the bathroom, dived back into the shower, and slammed the button. The water slowed to a trickle, and steam rolled around him. He was soaked to the skin.

 _Normal_ , Malcolm thought to himself. At a loss, he picked up a towel and dabbed futilely at his wet clothes. The shower hadn’t shut off properly; it was still dripping furiously, but he’d exhausted his nerve. He walked quickly back into the bedroom. His quarters felt suddenly small.

The door flew rudely open, and Trip burst in, looking ready to tackle anything. He did a double-take on finding Malcolm standing in front of him. Malcolm rolled his eyes, wordless, trying to express exactly how he felt about people who barged into other people’s quarters uninvited.

Trip relaxed his stance, raised an eyebrow, and enquired, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m having a shower,” Malcolm told him. It suddenly occurred to him that if he’d communicated this fact when the door had first sounded, Trip might have left him alone.

“In your clothes?”

Malcolm looked down at himself. He was dripping. His towel was hanging loose in his hands.

“I’m having a bit of a problem,” he confided.

“Obviously,” Trip said. He stepped past Malcolm into the steam-filled bathroom, rolled up his sleeve, and silenced the trickling shower.

“Thanks,” Malcolm said, into the now soundless room. “I couldn’t actually get in there.”

Trip leaned on the door frame and looked him up and down, visibly struggling for words.

Malcolm rubbed his towel over his face to hide it. “It’s not a big deal,” he told Trip. “I just don’t like the water.”

Trip put his head on one side. “But you haven’t always had this problem,” he pointed out.

“I have,” Malcolm said, feeling contrary.

“Really? You’ve spent the last four years freaking out in the shower every day? Gotta say, you’ve hidden it well.”

“People used to respect my privacy,” Malcolm said. “I can’t believe you just barged in here. I could have been undressed.”

“Well, then I would have regretted it.” Trip offered him a crooked smile.

Malcolm shook his head. He felt outside himself, like somebody else was having this conversation. He spread his towel carefully on the bed and sat down on it.

Trip seemed to be finding the texture of the door frame interesting. He ran his finger down it.

“Malcolm,” he said. “Will you just tell me what’s wrong?” His tone was careful, and a little pleading, and Malcolm wondered what he expected in return. Hysterics, maybe. He felt like his will to fight had emptied down the drain.

“I don’t like the water,” he said, again. “Fiest worked that out.”

It was surprisingly easy to say, after all that. Malcolm leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes under Trip’s gaze.

“That bastard,” Trip said. He sounded so angry Malcolm opened his eyes again in mild surprise. He looked at Trip with interest.

“I was lying to him,” he pointed out, reasonably. “It’s his job to catch people like me. Did you know his daughter died?”

Trip frowned like this hurt him. “Don’t make excuses for him,” he said. “Malcolm, you’ve got goddamn Stockholm Syndrome or something.”

Malcolm considered remarking that actually, that was about the only thing that Phlox hadn’t told him he’d got, but that didn’t seem to be Trip’s real point. Trip scratched his jaw and looked at him speculatively. He came and sat beside Malcolm on the bed, turning up the corner of the towel to find a dry patch.

“You haven’t really been freaking out in the shower every day for four years, have you?” he asked.

“No,” Malcolm said, heavily. “I can shower. It’s pathetic.” He snorted. “This whole business is pathetic. It’s only water, for crying out loud.”

“One time,” Trip said, “Lizzie hid an earwig in my lunchbox, and I opened it up in the cafeteria, and I screamed so damn loud…”

Malcolm smiled a little, in spite of himself. “You’ve told me that before,” he said. He held his fingers up in front of his face and flexed them. His fist hurt from punching the door, and his palms stung.

“Can I ask you something?” Trip asked, watching.

“Can I say no?” Malcolm gave back, without fire. Trip was always trying to fix things. Malcolm wished he’d learn when to decently quit.

“No,” Trip said. “I’ve been reading up about this Niskaan situation. Thinking about it. You think Eska was really sorry about the people he killed?”

This was a less threatening question than Malcolm had expected.

“He agreed to keep the ceasefire,” he said, cautiously. “It was a condition of his release.”

“Yeah, but was he _sorry_? I mean, the Separatists signed the ceasefire in return for representation in government, right? So they got what they fought for. He might have seen it as a victory. Like it justified everything he’d done.”

Malcolm thought his way through this. It could easily be true, but it didn’t feel like it mattered much.

“Think they were wrong to release him?” Trip asked, when he said nothing.

“No,” Malcolm said. “I don’t think so. If it was the only way to make peace, perhaps it was worth it.”

Trip nodded. “So how come you’ll cut Fiest a break, and you’ll cut Eska a break, but you won’t cut yourself one?”

“I’m not cutting anyone a break,” Malcolm said, needled. Annoyed with himself for not seeing this coming. “It’s just… it’s their own business. Their situation is complicated.”

“And yours isn’t?”

“Oh, drop it,” Malcolm said, and closed his eyes again. There was no point. He was done. Harris had used him all up, and he’d been living this long, awkward lie ever since.

He felt Trip shift his weight on the bed beside him.

“Malcolm, listen. About this trial… Malcolm, will you listen?”

“I am listening,” Malcolm said, but the word _trial_ was like a switch in his brain.

“Malcolm, if you won’t defend yourself, you’re not going to give them much choice.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow without opening his eyes. Trip misunderstood. There was no choice. The trial would be theatre, nothing more. He wished they could dispense with it altogether.

“It makes no difference,” he told Trip out loud. Compared to his time on Niskaa, a Starfleet prison would practically be nice.

Trip exhaled his impatience, and shifted on the bed again.

“Let’s practise,” he said, raising his voice to reach through Malcolm’s thoughts. “Come on, tell me again. You, highly disreputable character that you are, are posing as an arms dealer on some trading outpost, right?”

Malcolm ignored him.

“And you’re waiting to make a deal with the Flying Dutchman.”

“ _Heldhaftig_ ,” Malcolm corrected, with his eyes still closed.

“Right. And this Niskaan approaches you, wanting to buy. And he wants to check your merchandise, so you can’t give him duds. It’s a tense situation, he’s edgy, you’re edgy, right? You’ve got a lot riding on this, and you don’t want to blow it. Right?”

“Right.”

“And,” Trip was warming to his story, “You’re scared he’ll smell a rat if you won’t deal, but if you hesitate, he’ll smell one too, and there’s a lot of people around gonna notice. Right?”

“Yeah.” Malcolm opened his eyes again. “Place was full of smugglers, fencers, thieves. Suspicious people with suspicious minds. Everybody’s watching each other.” He looked at Trip sideways. “All Eska had to do was look at me funny, and the whole place would have known about it. My reputation would have been in shreds. And I might have been too, if I couldn’t get out quick-smart.”

“And meanwhile, the Dutchman would have flown.” Trip raised his eyebrows, and Malcolm nodded. In the middle of it all, he’d consoled himself with the duds he’d been selling. The blasts that wouldn’t go off, the people who wouldn’t die. Because of him. The thought made him want to pinch himself now.

“So, if you had to do it again, what would you do?” Trip asked. “Would you tell Eska to shove his pery-oxy-acetone up his ass, even if he did spook the boomers?”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm said. He’d been careless, really, risking exposure with every dud sale. Harris hadn’t liked it. He’d told Malcolm to keep his nose out of other people’s business, and his eyes on the prize.

“What if,” Trip persisted, “you’d told Eska to stick it, then the boomers killed again? Because you blew your chance to catch them?”

“I don’t know.” Exactly what Malcolm had asked himself, with Eska stood in front of him, demanding to scan his products. A big guy, with a carrying voice, and piercing, pale eyes. He shook his head, feeling bruised by Trip’s persistence. “It all happened so fast,” he said. “I wanted more time to decide. I’ve had six years now, and I still haven’t decided.”

“Look,” Trip said, and Malcolm wanted to slump, because everyone was telling him to look lately, but no one else saw. “I think you should cut the captain a break,” Trip said. “If you won’t cut yourself one. Might be he understands more about making that kind of decision than you think he does. You’re not giving him a chance right now.”

Malcolm shook his head again, feeling a rise of frustration. Archer made hard decisions, it was true, but it was his job to – his honest job. And he wasn’t like Malcolm. His starting point was different. Archer led from solid ground, while Malcolm undermined himself. This was just going to keep on happening to him, one way or another.

Trip had gone quiet, letting him process, but the silence quickly became more than Malcolm could bear.

“Come on then, if you’re so smart,” he challenged. “What would you have done?”

“I wouldn’t have been there in the first place,” Trip said.

Malcolm’s heart hit the floor, because this was the sheer truth of it. He shouldn’t have been there either. Harris was the one he should have told to stick it, years before.

Trip caught his look. “I mean, my job doesn’t require me to make that kind of decision, and I’m damn grateful for it,” he said. “I probably would’ve told Eska, hang on a minute, I gotta ask my colleague, and then called you.”

Malcolm shifted, as though he were sitting on ants. “Don’t think I haven’t told myself any of this,” he said. “I know I might have screwed up either way. But it doesn’t make me feel better. I feel like I shouldn’t feel better. It isn’t fair on the ones who died. I feel like, if I carry on, I’m going to leave them behind.”

Trip scratched his head. “Yeah,” he said.

“Sorry,” Malcolm said, after a pause.

“No problem,” Trip said, a little absently. They were silent for a moment more.

“You do have to draw a line somewhere,” Trip said, eventually. “It’s the worst, but it doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten. Look at the Niskaans. They’d destroy each other, if they hadn’t broken that cycle. It’s another hard choice, but… I think letting yourself break is the easy way, sometimes. And the people you’re trying to remember, they deserve more than that.”

Malcolm pressed his fingertips together, flexing his hands until his scars ached to the bone.

“I wish sometimes,” he said, “that I’d done something really bad. Despicable. On purpose, I mean. Like Eska. And that everyone would blame me for it. And then I just wouldn’t care.”

Trip smiled at him. He stood and stretched, his tendons cracking, and put his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, ostensibly to keep himself upright.

“As a hint,” he said, “I’d find you more convincing as a cold hearted criminal mastermind if you’d learned to take your clothes off in the shower.”

* * *

Archer did not invite Malcolm to sit until he’d stated his business.

He looked better rested and better scrubbed than when Archer had last seen him, though his eyes were still shadowed, and he’d lost weight he could ill afford to. It was incongruous having him in his ready room out of uniform, like he’d gotten lost on his way somewhere else.

He was Archer’s second unexpected caller in as many hours.

The first had been Premier Gruun, thwarting all Archer’s hopes that he’d never have to hear from the man again in his life. Gruun’s words, when he’d flashed up on the screen, had been as courteous and well-placed as they’d ever been, but his eyes had been thin with mistrust.

Had they misplaced one of their crew, he’d enquired, coldly. They’d picked up a human on Niskaa.

Archer’s blood had turned to ice. There was no one it could be except Deiter. He’d been starting to build some sense of the man through his records, and his first thought was, _why the hell couldn’t you get off the planet sooner?_ His second thought was directed at Harris: _careful, eh?_ For a moment, Archer almost felt vindicated, triumphant at the news. He’d been right that Harris had only been lucky. But he couldn’t give any of that back to Gruun.

“It’s no one of mine, Premier,” he’d said, hating that this felt like a lie, even though it wasn’t one. “Who do they say they are?”

“They are not saying much,” Gruun said with distaste, “Since we picked them up out of the river. In a small town called Lassaar, downstream of Chibnia.”

“Oh,” Archer had said, feeling wrong-footed, and a little sick.

“The body is in their morgue. We’d appreciate it if you’d remove it. And I would appreciate it if you would make _some_ investigation into how this person came to be illegally on our planet.” Gruun’s tone hadn’t suggested he thought this was at all likely. Archer had been tempted to fire back an enquiry as to how Gruun’s investigation into Lieutenant Reed’s mistreatment was going, but his moral high ground had been feeling a little shaky under foot.

As he’d stepped onto the bridge to order a course change, Archer wondered what the Premier had guessed. If he’d decided to start listening to Fiest, their deception might be up, since it wouldn’t take much to connect the dots and link Deiter back to the explosion in White River Square.

Archer considered the possibility that this might be a trap; if Gruun would meet him with guns when he landed, or try to arrest him. But he thought Gruun’s look of disdain had been telling, and his insistence he didn’t want to see Archer himself on his arrival. Gruun wanted his hands washed of this, Archer thought, and the evidence that he might have been made a fool of removed.

And now Malcolm was here. Looking himself again; contrite, but determined, the thin shadow of the knife wound still on his cheek.

“I wanted to apologise,” he said. Archer watched him, his expression unchanging, not ready to let his guard down. Malcolm wavered a little in the face of this, but pushed on. “I wasn’t trying to protect Harris,” he said. “It’s not about what’s classified. I was just… ashamed of myself.”

Archer waited to see if relief would wash over him. This was everything he’d wanted to hear, after all, but it seemed to have gone stale with the waiting. All he could think was that it proved Harris uncomfortably right again. Harris had known Malcolm well enough to predict his behaviour, and he’d used that against them both. Archer found himself searching again for what Harris had found in the man that he hadn’t.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” Archer asked him, unable to hide an acerbic note. Malcolm nodded, with a touch of misery. Archer indicated he could sit.

“I am sorry,” Malcolm said again, as he did so. His throat sounded tight. “I’ll testify against him in court. I’ll say whatever you want me to.”

With Harris on his mind, Malcolm’s obedience stung Archer almost as much as his silence had.

“I don’t want you to say whatever I want you to,” Archer told him. “That’s not how we work. I want you to tell the truth.”

Malcolm shuffled in his seat, and looked shifty. “Yes, sir. I mean, I will, sir.”

“We’re on our way back to Earth now,” Archer told him, deciding not to mention their detour for now. He’d related the details of his deal with Gruun to Starfleet Command, and the date for Malcolm’s hearing had been set. Archer, who’d been expecting some discussion at least, could only hope this was a good sign; that whatever Harris said, someone in Starfleet was showing an interest in the truth, or a willingness to listen.

Malcolm nodded, obviously feeling the implications. He was silent, and looked slightly sick, seemingly waiting for a cue to start talking.

Archer was still holding the PADD he’d been reading when Malcolm entered. He put it to one side now, and felt a stab of annoyance that he knew was uncharitable – but this had always been his least favourite trait in his armoury officer; the way he acted like some kid in the principal’s office, taught that he shouldn’t talk back. It made Archer wonder how Malcolm saw him – and made him paranoid that he’d been misreading him, or missing things. Like whether the trust between them had always been imagined on his part, or if they’d lost it somewhere along the way, and he should have noticed when.

“Explain,” he ordered.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked to the PADD as it clattered down, then past it, with polite incuriosity. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he suddenly frowned, and froze. Something had snagged his attention.

Archer, watching Malcolm’s face, pushed the PADD towards him with his fingertips, giving him permission to see. Malcolm was suddenly full of suspicion. He picked it up, then put it down abruptly, and faced Archer, fierce mistrust in his eyes.

“You knew,” he accused. “You already knew.” There was a note of disbelief there too.

“What did I know?” Archer challenged him, thinking _this is more like it._ He knew what to do with being yelled at. But Malcolm was staring at his face, and then just as suddenly as he’d flared up, he backed down again.

“About Deiter,” he said, but he sounded less sure.

“Gerben Deiter?” Archer said, his heart rising. “Sounds like you might know better than me. Who is he?”

Malcolm wore uncertainty like a scar. He picked up the PADD again, but he didn’t look at it; it was just something to do with his hands.

“He’s a boomer,” Malcolm said. “Or he was one. He used to have a ship called _Heldhaftig_.”


	8. Chapter 8

Though Archer’s business on Niskaa seemed simple enough – collect the human body, then leave - he couldn’t shake his sense of foreboding as they drew closer. He didn’t trust the planet not to find some way to keep him there, or to keep pulling him back, so that every time he felt like they’d made progress, there would be Niskaa, hanging in his window again.

But when he arrived in Chibnia the sun was out, which made the city feel like another country. There was no trap waiting for him, just a car, and nobody turned accusing eyes towards him, or even looked at him much at all. Archer, feeling an urge to touch base, asked his driver to wait while he called in to see Rasak.

Rasak was surprised to see him, but unsuspicious, even when Archer explained his business.

“Our port controls are very bad,” he said matter-of-factly, as though remarking on inclement weather. He asked after Malcolm, and they exchanged news and cautious pleasantries. Archer left feeling like he’d been lying again. Perhaps he’d been secretly hoping that Rasak would question him more closely, that he’d chase the truth out into the open, but the advocate seemed to consider his case closed.

 _If that’s what you really want, go see Fiest,_ Archer told himself, but the thought rung hollow in his belly. Deiter hadn’t thrown himself in the river, after all, and Fiest was the only other person who’d certainly known he’d been on Niskaa.

Archer’s driver was a young man he hadn’t met before, who seemed to view Archer’s presence in the car as a great novelty, something he would tell his friends about later – but he was pleasant enough, and eager to talk, as their vehicle trundled out past the city. He asked questions about Enterprise and Earth, and was happy to answer Archer in return.

Their destination was a town called Lassaar, some miles south of Chibnia. It was nowhere, his driver, who was obviously a city boy, said; just a fishing village, built in the bend of the river. The river had burst its banks in recent rains, and the body had been left behind, washed up, when the water receded.

Apparently, such beachings at Lassaar were not uncommon. The driver told Archer that the flood plains round the town were full of mines. Lassaar itself was too insignificant to ever have been targeted in the fighting, but floods up river frequently displaced mines from the soil and carried them down.

The road grew worse and worse as they neared their destination, until it was little more than a dirt track with a loose surface of stones – and even these had been washed out in places. Their vehicle was robust, with wide, ridged tyres, and it rocked and bumped over the uneven trail like a ship in a choppy sea, until Archer had to stare hard out of the window in order not to feel seasick.

The thought of making the return journey with a waterlogged corpse for company didn’t help. Archer kept remembering Deiter’s eyes as he’d seen them in their face-off in the alley, dark but bright behind his mask.

“He’s in prison,” Malcolm had insisted, when Archer had told him that Deiter was Harris’s man on Niskaa. Then he’d paused, and amended flatly, “I was told he was in prison.”

Deiter’s records showed his arrest for smuggling explosives to Caeneus colony, but he’d never been convicted. His ship, _Heldhaftig_ , had been impounded, and broken down for parts, but Gerben Deiter himself was marked as missing from custody. There was no further trace of him in official records from that point forward.

“Harris must have figured he’d been a useful kind of guy to have onside,” Archer said. “Made a deal with him.” No wonder Harris had played Deiter to keep him on the line; letting him have his small rebellions – like dealing with Fiest – to forestall a real one. They’d been playing with fire, both of them.

“I didn’t do all that just to land Harris a new recruit,” Malcolm had said, in a steady, tight voice that suggested he was furious. “I wouldn’t have. I never would have.”

Archer himself felt that he could have accepted Malcolm’s story just fine, if only he’d heard it for the first time six weeks ago. He and Malcolm had been talking a lot since they’d exchanged confessions, in a way that felt like they were trying to get to know each other all over again – but that hadn’t gone so smoothly the first time they’d tried it either.

“You don’t trust me,” Archer had said. He meant it as a statement of fact, a problem they both had to solve together, but he saw from Malcolm’s face that he’d taken it as an accusation. Archer had thought, _well, if the cap fits, wear it._

“I trust you, sir,” Malcolm had said, but lamely. It was easy enough to say it, after all.

“If you trusted me, you’d come to me first, always,” Archer said. “I don’t know what it is, if you don’t think I’ll understand, or you don’t think I’ll do right, but you can’t tell me, after all this, that there’s no problem here.”

Malcolm had dropped his eyes. He never had thrived under direct attention, but Archer wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“What did you promise Harris in return for that information on Terra Prime?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Malcolm said, with a frown.

“He insinuated that you did.” Archer was sure Harris hadn’t needed to lie on that count. He had enough real holds over both of them without needing to resort to weak untruths.

Malcolm shifted in his seat. “Well, he did say to me, that if I talked to him, I was back in the game.”

“And what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Malcolm looked a little shamefaced. “But I did talk to him.”

“You never told me.”

“Sir, I had no intention of doing anything Harris asked me. But he wouldn’t have talked if I hadn’t let him think there was a chance. He doesn’t do favours. I knew what I was doing.”

“I don’t doubt that you knew. What bothers me is that I never seem to.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But you needed that information. I suppose I didn’t want you to feel like you’d put me in a bad situation.”

“Had I?” Archer asked. The idea that he ought to second-guess Malcolm’s tendency to self-sacrifice every time he gave him an order felt tiresome.

“Not really,” Malcolm said. “If he’d come back to me with anything he wanted doing, I would have just said no. I can’t see he could do anything about that. He couldn’t make me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure that he wouldn’t find some way to get what he wanted from you,” Archer said. “Seems to me, that’s what he does. Like your situation with Deiter and Eska. By the time you realised what was required of you, it was too late to just say no.”

Malcolm had dropped his eyes again, but his jaw was clenched. Archer had to resist the urge to poke at him to make him let that anger out.

Rocking in the car, Archer realised his creeping unease hadn’t just been about returning to Niskaa. After this was out the way, they’d be setting course for Earth, where the date for Malcolm’s trial had been set. Without knowing Malcolm’s role in all this, Archer hadn’t been able to gauge how serious Harris’s threats towards him were, but now he saw the uncomfortable truth. For better or worse, Malcolm had made a hard decision, and how culpable he looked depended on whether they could prove that Starfleet had sanctioned his being made to make it in the first place. Malcolm’s reticence to share what was on his mind still frustrated Archer, but it wasn’t a flaw he wanted to see him go to prison for.

The road was following the course of the river now, snaking across the fields, and the village was in sight, hunched houses about a mile ahead. The road was raised above the flood plains, but still they hit another bad patch, a dip full of sucking mud, and the vehicle was floundering. The driver gritted his teeth and gripped the controls, as though his own strength might urge them forward. The wheels spun, kicking up great clods of earth behind them.

The car came unstuck suddenly, with a great lurch that threw Archer forward, winding him against the dashboard.

“Are we going to make it all the way?” Archer started to ask, but he was interrupted by a strange, muted bang, like a bag of air being ripped open, and the world threw itself upside down.

Archer hit the roof, his shoulder exploding in pain, tried to catch hold of something as the car kept rolling, but he was rattling loose, his tongue crunching between his teeth, helpless until they hit the bottom of the slope. He felt his ribs give with the next impact, all the breath flying out of his body. He braced himself to hold out till the rolling stopped, but the blackness took him first.

* * *

It took thirty days, Phlox said, before a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder could be made. This pronouncement had made Malcolm blink, unsure for a second if it even applied to him, or if it was just some random medical fact Phlox had chosen to impart. He’d wondered aloud why the fact that he felt bad even had to be accounted for in medical terms. Phlox was an awful bully, really, he thought; always badgering him.

Malcolm did try to do better, since people seemed to want it of him. Trip, whose patience was enduring to the point of irritation. Phlox, who did have his job to do, after all. The problem was, it seemed to make no difference whether Malcolm ignored his feelings or acknowledged them. He still caught himself obsessing, wanting to pace, getting stuck in anxious dreams, feeling unsafe wherever he stood, his skin eerie, like he was swimming over corpses. Sometimes, he’d even think he’d had a good day, but then Phlox would ask him how he was feeling, and what he’d been doing, and the answer to both would be _nothing._

Dissociation, Phlox had told him once, as though this proved something. Malcolm, who’d slept very little the night before, had been rather rude in return.

He supposed in the long run it hardly really mattered if it was a court martial that ended his career or a broken nerve, but it felt like the story of his life all over again. The land trapped him, but the sea scared him. He might as well still be thirteen years old, and standing on the sea wall, the taste of fear and salt on his tongue. And his parents would find out now, when this all came out in court. At least, they’d be informed; Malcolm had no intention of speaking to them himself. There was even some bitter relief to be had in the knowledge it would soon be over. His father could rest easy, with his point proved, and Malcolm himself would be put out of reach.

These were bad thoughts. Malcolm knew this – he was learning – but he still wanted to say this to people, when it all got too much for him. Point out that this was only what he’d always had coming, being forced to answer for the ways in which he’d failed and never fit in. But Phlox would only understand that he was being unhealthy, and Trip would argue him into the ground.

Archer wanted better from him too. He always seemed to be looking for something more from Malcolm, like he was still withholding some key explanation. Telling his story, Malcolm had been painfully aware that all his reasons had been Harris’s really – and if he ever considered lying to protect himself in court, he only had to remember his lies would be Harris’s too. All the time he’d talked with the captain’s eyes on him, he felt like he’d been made a fool of.

That Deiter had walked free was a kick in the ribs, and not just to Malcolm, but to all the victims of his smuggling habit – which included, in Malcolm’s eyes, the Niskaans who’d died so that he could be caught. Malcolm’s anger on their behalf felt almost familial. Blood ran deep, after all, and while theirs was on his hands, they felt like a part of him, like he would live with them always.

When Enterprise drew back into orbit around Niskaa, Malcolm was grateful that his quarters had no window. He didn’t want to see the planet, or to think about the captain being down there – or to second guess the security Archer wouldn’t have thought to assign to himself.

He was lying on his bunk, unsuccessfully trying to read, when his comm chirruped.

“Sato to Reed.”

He stared at the wall-mounted comm for a full second, as though it was plotting against him.

“Reed here.”

“You’re wanted on the bridge, Lieutenant.”

 _You’ve made a mistake_ , he wanted to tell her. _I’m not on duty. I’m suspended. Ill. Disgraced._ But Hoshi knew that; everyone knew that. Something must be wrong. He got to his feet, running his hands through his hair while his skin prickled.

When he stepped onto the bridge, nobody turned to stare at him, but pointedly so. Hoshi and Travis shot him quick, uncertain looks in greeting. Ensign Sorescu, who was on Malcolm’s team, and at Malcolm’s station, had his face creased in a frown. Malcolm felt misplaced, and completely inappropriate out of uniform, as though he’d wandered in wearing pyjamas.

Only Trip had seen enough of him recently to find him completely unremarkable, while T’Pol simply said, “Lieutenant.” Malcolm had always had the impression T’Pol didn’t find him terribly interesting, and now he was grateful for it.

“We’ve got a problem,” Trip told him, and though Malcolm had guessed it, coldness poured down the back of his neck. “The car the captain was travelling in hit a mine in the road,” Trip continued, pulling up a map of the region on screen as he spoke. “He’s not answering his comm. First we knew was when the Niskaans called us. They say the car rolled down an incline, now it’s lying out in a field, with no sign of movement. The locals say the whole place is lousy with mines, they can’t even go out to it.”

Malcolm’s eyes went to T’Pol. She was ready for his question.

“Biosigns are inconclusive,” she told him. “And we’re unable to get a transporter lock. Something is interrupting our scans.”

“I’ve been checking your reports from down there,” Trip said. “Some of the mines have built in scramblers, anti-detection devices, right? Could they be messing with our signal?”

“Possible,” Malcolm said. His heart was thudding. He had to speak over the sound of it. “But they’re only short range, really short range. You’d have to be right on top of one.” He looked between the two of them, and felt a rise of anger. “They shouldn’t have sent him that way if the roads weren’t safe.”

“I know,” Trip said, and his tone made it plain he’d had some harsh words already. “The flood waters shift the mines around. But they said lots of cars have been back and forth along that road since the last time the water was over it, they thought it was clear.”

Malcolm shook his head in tight dismay. “Might have been a dud,” he said. “It happens sometimes. You can hit them once, twice, three times, and they won’t go off, but they’re still live down there. And they don’t have decent detection equipment in those remote little towns. That’s why we were helping in the first place.”

Trip had been watching him intently, and now he nodded, like Malcolm’s words had settled something. “I’m taking a team down,” he announced. “Malcolm, I know you’re not on duty, but I want you on it.”

Malcolm’s mind turned upside down. A part of him was down there already, but even as Trip spoke, his heartbeat started racing beyond his control. He was keenly aware of his own potential to make everything worse; that once down there, his own panic could sabotage him.

Trip and T’Pol exchanged a glance across his hesitation, and Malcolm wondered if they’d disagreed about calling him. The thought made him lose sensation in his knees.

Trip moved closer to him, and spoke low enough that only Malcolm could hear, though everyone else must see that they were having words. “Look, Sorescu can do what needs doing down there. I just need you to watch his back. All our backs. You’ve been working with those damn things for weeks now.”

“He’s been down there too,” Malcolm found himself arguing. “He knows his stuff just as well as I do.”

Trip gave him a steady look, then abruptly snapped his gaze away.

“Sorescu,” he called, across the bridge. “You dealt with these scrambling mines before, right? You know how to locate and disarm one?”

Sorescu’s head came up with a slightly guilty jerk. He’d been straining to overhear them.

“I think so,” he said. “On normal settings, you can’t read them, but if you reconfigure your scanner, you can start picking up sensor shadows. Problem is, the closer you get to one, the worse the interference gets.”

Malcolm interrupted him, feeling impatient. Sorescu seemed to be speaking infernally slowly. “You can locate a mine within a few metres easily enough,” he told Trip. “The problem is pinpointing an individual, especially if you’ve got a cluster. You have to start mapping where the interference intersects.”

“Right,” Trip said, like doubt didn’t exist. “No offence, Sorescu, but I want the guy who didn’t say ‘I think so’ down there too. Malcolm?” His tone was as close to an order as Trip ever came with him. Malcolm wanted to hate him, suddenly. Trip’s confidence came as natural to him as breathing; he’d never had to fight for it, or known what it felt like to lose to his fears. Malcolm shot a look at T’Pol, with the fleeting hope that she’d veto the idea, and take it out of his hands.

She met his eye steadily. “It would be logical to have the benefit of your experience on the away team, Lieutenant.”

Her tone was unassailable. Trip shot her a quick look of what might have been gratitude. Malcolm clamped his back teeth together. Logically, his roaring nerves were just a post traumatic symptom; _logically_ , he’d made the right decision selling explosives to Eska, but logic wasn’t helping him a damn.

Everybody was staring at him now. He turned to Trip, was all ready to say, _I can’t, I’m sorry,_ but he looked at his friend, and the words wouldn’t come. If strength of will was all it took to be better, then Trip had practically been doing it for him. If he said _no_ now, Malcolm knew, it might be one _no_ too many. People would be sympathetic; they’d pretend to understand, but they’d always remember.

And it might be their last memory of him too. Letting down his captain again. Fear was like salt in his mouth.

He nodded.

Trip released a breath and leapt into action, seeming tall with relief.

“Get changed,” he said. “And get anything you need. Transporter room in five minutes.”

* * *

Hard earth rematerialized beneath Malcolm’s feet. A cold wind buffered against him, finding cracks in his clothing. They were standing on a raised road, on the edge of a sharp incline, running down to a flat expanse of grass. A cluster of Niskaans stood close by; Malcolm saw them from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t spare them a direct glance. As soon as his vision cleared, he was looking for the captain’s car.

He found it lying upside down about ten metres out from the bottom of the slope, so battered and caked in mud that his eye almost took it for part of the landscape. The river lay a little way beyond it, rushing past.

Beside him, Trip cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Captain! Captain Archer!” at the car. The wind tore his words away. No sound or movement answered. They might have been looking at an old wreck, lying there untouched for years.

Sorescu had his scanner out already, and Malcolm took a quick glance over his shoulder before taking out his own. The mud beneath his feet had a silty quality from the recent floods. The car seemed so close, only paces away, but they’d have to check the ground for mines all the way. A rise of impatience almost closed his throat, but he swallowed it down.

“We’re going to have to assume this road is safe to stand on,” Malcolm said, raising his voice to include the gathered Niskaans. “But even so, I suggest moving about only as much as is strictly necessary.” There was no question, he knew now, that he could just stand around and watch people’s backs. The car was too still, the captain too close, and the wind was whipping time away from them.

A couple of the Niskaans looked at him a little oddly, and Malcolm suddenly wondered with a hot flush if his name and his face had been on the newscasts.

“We should each try a different path,” he said to Sorescu. “Try and keep at least a couple of metres between us.”  
Sorescu nodded compliance, but Trip held Malcolm’s eye for a moment, an unspoken question.

“That way, if one of us gets stuck in a cluster, the other still has a chance to get there quickly,” Malcolm explained to him, deliberately misreading his expression. Doubt was too dangerous, too contagious to let near himself now. His attention was caught by the river, muddy brown and swollen between its banks. Flotsam spun in the current, sinking, rising.

He clamped down on the urge to shiver, and forced his eyes back to his work. The angle of the incline made it awkward to scan, and it was slick with mud. They had to edge their way down. Sorescu was capable and thorough, and he made good progress, but Malcolm was faster – necessarily so, because he knew if he started to hesitate, to double-check and second guess, he’d stall altogether, and then he’d be stuck there.

About half way down the slope, his scanner started picking up on some shadows, which slowed him to a crawl. Behind him, he could hear Trip talking with the Niskaans, the wind chopping up their speech into snatches. It made him uneasy having so many people around, especially since he hadn’t seen a uniform among them. All civilians. Too many feet and not enough discipline.

The thought ran an eerie finger down the back of his neck, and he glanced back over his shoulder. Trip was standing with his back half-turned, and the Niskaans were clustered around him. No one seemed about to go stamping around.  
Malcolm looked back to his scanner, but his moment of uncertainty had distracted him. The river caught his eye again, that same current that had carried Deiter down from Chibnia. Alive at first maybe, relentlessly rolling him, filling him with water, holding him under…

He shook himself free. Sorescu was still some paces behind him; he’d found shadows of his own. The hulk of the car loomed ahead, and suddenly the silence was more than Malcolm could stand. The captain could be bleeding out in there, impaled, metal scraping against bone. They could be killing him by wasting precious seconds.

Malcolm shifted his foot a little way beyond the range of his scanner. Just an inch or two, and then, since nothing happened, an inch or two more, and then he took a small step, and still nothing happened.

He felt suddenly calm. A muffled calm, like he’d been stifled, his ears plugged, and his eyes covered. He looked sideways at Sorescu.

“I think Commander Tucker wants you,” he said quietly, so the wind wouldn’t carry his words. The ensign looked up abruptly, his concentration snapped.

“Sir?”

Malcolm nodded back up the slope. Trip still had his back to them, but Sorescu wasn’t to know he hadn’t just been waving. The ensign looked a little doubtful, but since Malcolm had never given him a reason to suspect he was a liar, he turned to go.

Malcolm looked out across the sea of grass and felt a rising triumph. Light-headed, light-footed, like he’d just been unchained. He lowered his scanner altogether and half stepped, half slipped to the bottom of the slope. Still the ground was on his side. The car rose high ahead of him. Just a few more paces.

But a creeping sensation seized him from the feet up. The wind bit him. The grass here was different from the whispering seas he’d watched in the north; it was shorter, patchier, and almost too green, like a poisonous shade of algae.

One step. Two steps. It seemed to take him hours, his own body cursing him, his feet sticking in the mud. _Keep moving,_ he shouted in his own head, trying to bark an order, but he had no authority. He tried to summon Archer, or Harris, or his father, someone whose voice could shift him, but the wind in his ears was always louder.

And then behind him, even louder, he heard Trip bellow, “ _Malcolm!_ ”

Fresh danger hit him full in the face. He spun on the spot, throwing his arms out in horror, yelling, “Stop! _Stop!_ ” but Trip had hit the bottom of the slope already and was on him, eyes hot with fury.

“Watch your bloody feet!” Malcolm shouted in anguish, but Trip grabbed him by the shoulder and all but shook him with rage.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he barked in Malcolm’s face. “You are not getting blown up on my watch and that’s a damn order, Mister!”

In his shock, Malcolm hardly knew what he shouted back, and for a moment they were just yelling across each other, words roaring past and lost to the wind, until Trip paused for breath, and Malcolm took the chance to desperately appeal, “Will you keep your bloody feet still?”

Trip looked down, as though he was surprised to find where he was standing.

“Look,” Malcolm said, reaching for the spirit of reasonableness. The car was so close now he could smell the leaked fuel. “We haven’t got time for this. I know what I’m doing. It’s an acceptable risk.”

“Don’t give me that,” Trip threatened him. “If this was in any way a good plan, you would have run it by me.”

He was right, but still, Malcolm found his own lie strangely comforting; it smoothed his nerves out. Having Trip in his face helped too. In his alarm for his friend, he’d all but forgotten what his own feet were doing.

“I’d be there by now if you hadn’t stopped me,” he pointed out, before he could remember.

“Or I’d be picking bits of you out of my hair.” The hot rage had gone from Trip’s voice. He sounded flat-toned and furious. Malcolm felt a surge of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “But there isn’t time. The captain might not have time.” _I can’t let him down again_ , he wanted to say, but Trip would only give him back some guff about how he hadn’t, and then they really would be stuck here all day. Malcolm shrugged Trip’s grip off his shoulder and made his point instead by taking a step backwards.

Trip’s face screwed up in consternation, but Malcolm chose not to hear what he was saying. “You can step where I’ve stepped,” he told him, since he knew he’d never get rid of him now, “but keep back. If you get too close, you could get hurt as well, and then neither of us will ever get there.”

Trip had opinions about that too, but Malcolm simply watched his lips move, and kept on edging backwards, telling himself it didn’t count that way. The mud shifted beneath his feet like he was walking on the back of something living.

Malcolm’s back bumped the edge of the car, and he let his breath out, the air in his lungs feeling bad. He turned and placed his hand on an exposed engine part for balance. It was still warm to the touch. He ran a quick, critical eye over the damage; the ripped tyres, and a gaping hole in the upturned undercarriage where the bomb had hit.

Trip’s hands landed on his shoulders, and Malcolm heard his name hissed in his ear. He ducked out from under Trip’s grasp, and crouched to peer through a window. The glass was splintered and mud-smeared, and he could see nothing. He pulled his sleeve up over his hands to break some of the shards away.

He found himself staring into a pair of pale, lilac eyes. The Niskaan driver. For a moment, Malcolm thought he was dead, but then his eyes rolled closed, and then open again. A trickle of blood bisected his forehead.

“Hello,” Malcolm said. He reached and broke away more glass. He could see the hunched shape of a second figure on the far side of the car, clothed in familiar blue. He watched for a second, looking for motion, but saw none.

“Can you answer me?” Malcolm asked the Niskaan, but his eyes were unfocused. Trip knelt beside him, jostling for room, fumbling in the medkit he carried slung over his shoulder. Malcolm dug his own abandoned scanner from his pocket, but read nothing but static. Whatever was scrambling Enterprise’s sensors was very close indeed.

He showed the screen to Trip and told him, “Keep as still as you can.” Trip looked ready to argue with that too, but Malcolm was already edging sideways along the untried ground, until his hands found the catch on the back door. He couldn’t budge it, so he stood and kicked the glass out with a mud-caked boot, clearing the shards until he had space to crawl through.

“Malcolm,” Trip was saying “Let me –”, but Malcolm had already pushed his head and shoulders inside, and Trip’s voice was behind him.

The wind shut off inside the car, and Malcolm felt warmer for a moment, but he quickly found himself crawling through about an inch of muddy water that had leaked in from the ground. The back seat had been shaken loose from its fixings and was hanging low, and he had to flatten himself under it, dragging with his elbows and pushing with his knees, until he was in a position to contort himself between the two front seats.

He reached Archer’s feet first. Beyond them, the captain was motionless, solid like part of the fittings, his face closed up. Malcolm edged until he could see Trip, peering past the Niskaan from the other side of the broken window.

“Okay?” Trip asked through the glass. His tone suggested a mistrustful truce.

“I can’t tell yet.”

“I meant you.”

“I’m okay.” Malcolm crept the inches forward until he could reach Archer’s jawline. The angle was awkward as he fumbled for a pulse. He found it, steady beneath his fingers, and closed his eyes in relief. Archer’s skin was warmer than his hands were. He craned his neck to look at Trip. He couldn’t speak, but his face must have told the story, because Trip nodded, the tension visibly leaving his shoulders.

Malcolm edged himself a little further. He was filthy and soaked from crawling, but found he didn’t really mind, except that it was freezing. Archer, at least, was lying across the remains of the front seat, which elevated him above Malcolm’s puddle. Malcolm had his hand on Archer’s chest, checking by feel that he breathing unobstructed, when the captain’s eyes rolled open.

“Sir!” Malcolm splashed in surprise. Archer frowned at him, blinking pain-hazed eyes.

“Malcolm?” he said, thickly.

“Yes, sir, it’s me. Don’t try to move.”

But Archer ignored his advice, shifting himself with a bone-deep groan, and Malcolm couldn’t get any leverage to stop him.

“You’ve got mud on your face,” Archer told him.

“So have you, sir.” He had an awful quantity of blood on his chin, too. Seeing Malcolm squinting in concern, Archer raised a hand to wipe it, and peered at his fingers.

“I bit my tongue,” he said, a little ruefully. Then his eyes fell on the Niskaan.

“Is he –?”

“He’s alive,” Malcolm said. “He’s fine. Banged his head, is all.” He hoped this was true. Archer nodded, and his eyes rolled closed again. Trip passed the medkit, and Malcolm gave Archer a hypospray for the pain, but then felt at a loss. Nothing seemed to be bleeding too much, or bent the wrong way, but the captain’s insides could be a crushed and misplaced mess for all Malcolm could tell without a scanner.

He felt rain on his face, and looked up and saw sky. His edging had brought him underneath the hole in the undercarriage. There were wires hanging down, loose and low, and he was about to reach and bat them away when some warning light clicked in his brain. It seemed to come from a part of himself he hadn’t listened to for weeks. He’d assumed that the wires were part of the car’s internal electrical system, but he suddenly saw that they didn’t match the rest of the exposed mechanics.

“Uh,” he said, this being the most urgent sound he could muster in his contorted pose.

“What?” Trip asked, leaning in.

“Well, the good news is the mine was a dud alright. It didn’t detonate properly. If it had, we’d be looking at pieces right now.”

“But there’s bad news?”

“The bomb is still live,” Malcolm said. “And the rest of it is right here. And probably not altogether stable.” He stared at the tangle of wires as though they might do something. Trip had gone quiet. For a moment, the world was without sound.

Then Trip said, “Can you see the scrambler?” and Malcolm seized himself and shook himself, because that was so obvious, and here he was lying staring, his mind cleared of thought. If he could disable the scrambler, they’d be able to use their scanners. Enterprise would be able to get a transporter lock on the casualties, and beam them out before he tackled the rest of the bomb. Malcolm squinted, trying to force his eyes to do their job. He couldn’t see.

“Can you pass me a torch?” he heard himself saying.

Archer stayed quiet as Trip obliged, and Malcolm flicked the light on and turned it on the wires. He should be talking to the captain, Malcolm remembered, getting him to answer, keeping him alert, but suddenly he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He was catching up with himself, he realised, and staring so hard his vision doubled. He closed his eyes.

“Trip,” he began, and then swallowed it down. Whatever he’d been about to say, it was futile. Trip must be sick to the back teeth by now of hearing him complain.

“What?” Trip prompted. “Malcolm?” The mud sucked as Trip shifted his weight on the ground. Malcolm opened his eyes again.

“Got it,” he said. For a second, it was like the sun had come out. The damn thing was right in front of him, knocked out of its proper place on the circuit. Cross-wired, he saw now, but that didn’t matter, he didn’t need to touch it, just interrupt its power supply, and he had an EM emitter in his kit which would kill the battery stone dead.

Malcolm was done in a minute. He took a quick check on Archer, expecting to see his eyes misted or closed, but instead he found the captain was watching him. He shifted self-consciously, and pulled out his scanner to cover for it. He turned it on Archer, watching data scroll across the screen. Archer’s shoulder was dislocated, and two of his ribs cracked, but nothing more hidden and hideous. Malcolm heaved a sigh.

“Am I going to live?” Archer asked him. His voice was hoarse, but had an edge of irony to it, so Malcolm replied, “Well, sir, I’m not a doctor,” before relating the news.

Trip had been standing up, trying his communicator, and now he knelt back down by the window.

“We’re working,” he said. “Good job, Malcolm. Captain, T’Pol’s got a lock. We’re going to beam you and the Niskaan out.”

“You should get out of here too,” Malcolm told him. “Get back to the road, at least.”

“What about you?” Trip asked, frowning at him and leaning in.

“I have to make this device safe before I can leave it. It won’t take long.”

“Then I can wait,” Trip said. Malcolm breathed through his nose. Trip was calling his bluff. A part of him felt grateful for the sentiment; the thought of being left alone here made him feel even colder, but sentiment was all it was.

“Commander Tucker,” he said, to show he meant business. “I’m about to tamper with live explosives. I need the area cleared.” Trip maintained the air of an immovable object, and Malcolm added, more peevishly than he meant to, “I’m not touching it until you’re gone.”

“Malcolm’s right,” Archer spoke up, unexpectedly. Malcolm, who’d been prepared to hold the deadlock until he froze to death, almost jumped. “It’s standard operating procedure,” Archer said. “Trip, you should go.”

Trip gave Malcolm a speculative look and spoke to Archer without budging an inch.

“With all due respect to Lieutenant Reed,” he said. “He doesn’t have medical clearance for active duty right now, and I’m not comfortable leaving him alone here.”

Malcolm wanted to flop back into the mud and hide his face. The worst part was he couldn’t argue with Trip’s point at all, and he found Trip’s tact irrationally irritating. As much as he didn’t want to be exposed in front of the captain, he hardly deserved to be covered for.

Archer was trying to lift himself up onto his good elbow, grimacing as he did so. Malcolm put a hand out to him, meaning to discourage him, but Archer caught hold of it and used it for leverage. His grip, at least, was reassuringly strong.

“I can stay,” he said. “I was just getting comfortable here anyway.”

“Captain,” Malcolm began, because this was an even worse idea, but Archer shot him a look which said as clear as words that he didn’t want to hear Malcolm’s opinion. Trip took up Malcolm’s protest for him instead, and Malcolm lay in the mud between them feeling like a third wheel.

He was feeling the cold before they reached an agreement, and the time spent in silence did his nerves no favours. Trip wasn’t happy, but Archer dug his heels in, pulled rank, and promised they’d check in by comm at regular intervals. Trip need only go back as far as the road, he said; he’d only be metres away from them. Malcolm flexed his fingers, resenting himself quietly, his hands feeling dangerous.

The Niskaan was beamed out to safety, and his absence let the wind in through the window. Malcolm wanted to say some last word to Trip, feeling ashamed of leaning so hard on his loyalty, but he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound desperate or weak. He kept still in the mud instead, and listened to Trip leave.

Archer let himself back down off his elbow with a wince.

“Captain’s prerogative,” he said, when he caught Malcolm looking at him. Malcolm couldn’t tell if this was a joke or an admonishment – or if Archer’s intervention represented some kind of vote of confidence, or a vote of none at all.

“Are you alright, sir?” he asked, stalling for time. “If you’re cold, or you need another shot –”

“I’ll let you know,” Archer said, a little shortly, Malcolm thought. He shut up, feeling snubbed, and tried to force his attention back to the wires before him. A piece of casing was obstructing his view. He reached to clear it, and then tucked his torch between his teeth to keep his hands free to think. He was very aware that he was going through the motions.

Archer shifted until he found a comfortable position, and lay looking through the hole at the sky, his face lined in thought. Malcolm was grateful not to be watched too closely. He lifted his scanner, and ran it over a wire to trace the power output. He was making some tentative progress, and had already paused once to reassure Trip on the comm, when Archer remarked, out the blue;

“I saw Rasak in town.”

Malcolm immediately wanted to jam his fingers in his ears. It was not just the mention of the advocate’s name – though the memories that came crowding in were hardly welcome – but the knowledge that Archer was just going to keep on talking about this, and there was nothing at all that Malcolm could do to prevent him. He was suddenly very aware that he was trapped on his back.

“Did you, sir?” he said, endeavouring to make his voice sound flat and disinterested, as though he had his mind on his work, and ought not to be distracted.

“Yeah. He asked after you. You know, I didn’t think Gruun was going to take any action, but Rasak said Fiest is facing an internal investigation. He might lose his job.”

The mention of Fiest’s name ran Malcolm flat against an emotional brick wall. _I don’t care_ , he wanted to say. _I don’t care. They can crown him king of Niskaa for all the fuck I give._ He closed his eyes so tightly that his temples hurt. Water was creeping round his neckline.

“I guess I should wait until Phlox has done the autopsy before I start speculating,” Archer was still talking, and  
staring at the sky. “But you know, Deiter didn’t throw himself in the river, and Fiest certainly would have had a motive –”

“Sir,” Malcolm broke in sharply. “I don’t know, sir. I wouldn’t put it past Deiter to fall foul of any local lowlife.” He reached and jabbed too hard at a wire, and added savagely, “Or maybe he fell in.”

The silence that followed was slightly too loud. Malcolm couldn’t look at Archer. His cheeks felt hot; the rest of him was numb. He pretended to be absorbed in his work, but the wires in front of his face confounded him.

“I’m sorry,” Archer said, after a time, sounding like he’d picked the words carefully. “I’m not trying to get at you. You’re just the only other person who understands what happened here.”

Malcolm let his breath out through his teeth. He didn’t want to look too closely at Archer’s idea. It could easily be true, but if it was, it had been Malcolm himself who’d wound Fiest up that badly in the first place.

“I suppose it’s possible,” he said, hoping this might be enough to put the subject away, but Archer took up his words and ran with them.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” he said, as though the whole idea had been Malcolm’s. “Fiest wanted to expose us. He could have arrested Deiter, interrogated him, and confronted us with the evidence. He could have proved himself right.”

“Perhaps he’s lost his faith in Niskaan justice,” Malcolm suggested. The word interrogate had made his teeth hurt. “Can’t blame him really.”

“Really?” Archer echoed, with a note of incredulity, and Malcolm wished he’d kept that last thought to himself. Archer, like Trip, would never follow him down that line of thinking.

“I don’t suppose he has much faith in Starfleet justice either,” Archer said. “I can’t blame him for that.”

“No, me neither,” Malcolm said, and then wished he hadn’t done that either. He’d intended a bland agreement, but a bitter note had boiled over. Archer didn’t miss it. He shifted his weight with a frown while Malcolm closed his teeth on his tongue.

“I know you’re worried about the hearing,” Archer said. “I am too. But I’ve got to believe it’s better this way than a Niskaan court.”

 _Better_ felt pretty meaningless, really. Malcolm waited to see what he’d blurt out this time. Nothing came, but even so, he felt a bubble of frustration; Archer still wasn’t seeing past the surface of this.

“The Niskaans were looking for the truth,” Malcolm told him. “We might not have liked how they did it…” He felt his mouth twist. “But that was all they wanted.”

“All Fiest wanted?” Archer said. Malcolm shot him a savage look before he could help it; it was that, or he’d have to start shouting about his disinterest. Archer looked taken aback, and finally fell quiet. Malcolm felt shocked at himself, but a little giddy with triumph. He tried to use it, bringing his hand up to do some delicate work with a wire, but as soon as he did, he found he had a problem.

 _The cold_ , he told himself. _You’re cold, that’s all._ He took a moment to breathe, half-wondering if it would be at all effective to comm Trip and demand he beam Archer out just to stop him from watching. Malcolm steepled his fingers in front of his face and blew on them. _It’s just the cold._

The lines in Archer’s forehead had deepened.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just a little cramp in my hands, sir,” Malcolm said. Rain was starting to spit in his eyes.

“I guess they’re not quite healed up, yet, huh?” Archer said, after a pause. Malcolm risked a glance at him, and found his eyes had softened.

“No,” Malcolm agreed, his face warming. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have to wait a minute, I can’t –”

“It’s okay,” Archer said. “I guess there’s no rush.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to dispute that, but then thought better of it. He pulled his sleeves down over his shaking hands, since the cold couldn’t be helping at any rate.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, softly. He felt run through with regret for all the chances he’d lost, an emotion so simple and overwhelming he’d found no room for it in his head until now. Too little, too late, he told himself, but even so, he was ashamed that the captain had caught him lying again.

“I’ve been having some problems since I got back,” he confessed quietly into the silence.

“I know,” Archer said, after a pause.

“Phlox says it’ll be alright,” Malcolm had to excuse himself, although Phlox had actually said no such thing. “But…”

“Takes time,” Archer suggested.

“Yes, sir.”

“You probably shouldn’t be down here.”

Malcolm sunk an inch or two in the mud.

“No, sir.”

“Why was Trip looking like he wanted to skin you alive just now?” Archer clearly thought he’d got him on a roll.

“Little disagreement about methodology, sir.”

Archer sighed, but let it lie. Malcolm found he had nothing else in him. Archer raised his comm to report to Trip that everything was “Fine”, and after a short while, Malcolm put himself back to work, trying to isolate wires which were too tangled up in each other for his scanner to distinguish. He was battling genuine cramp, opening and closing his fingers in front of his face, when Archer spoke again.

“You know, you should have told me,” he said.

“Sir?” Malcolm said, distracted.

Archer smiled without humour. “Anything,” he said. “If there’s anything you’re wondering if you should have told me, the answer is yes, you should have told me.”

He shifted with a grimace.

“But in this instance,” he said, “I mean you should have told me everything the moment we picked Niskaa up on long range scanners. You never gave me a chance to make an informed decision here. I might not even have sent you down here, if I’d known.”

Malcolm reached for a delicate wire, pinched it between his fingers, and pulled it free. This justified his taking a minute to answer.

“The job needed doing,” he said. Archer looked at him with eyebrows raised, waiting for him to conclude his reasoning. Malcolm, who’d thought he was done, reached for another wire. He still had nothing, so he checked in with Trip, who sounded cold too; shivering metres away on the road, in the company of courteous Niskaans.

“Those people out there,” Malcolm said, when he’d put away his comm. “They live with a minefield in their back yard. And they don’t have detection equipment, they don’t have anything. When the floods bring the mud up over the road, they test for mines by driving a car along it.”

“They’re a brave people,” Archer said, and Malcolm frowned in frustration; he wasn’t explaining it right.

“They’re not,” he said. “I mean, they don’t choose to be. They don’t want to be. But no one comes out here to help them. If I helped any people like them, before – well, before it all went wrong, then I’m glad I could.” He realised this was true only as he said it, and it unburdened him slightly, because it wasn’t even about what he owed to the Niskaans. It was a cleaner emotion than that.

“Maybe so,” Archer said. “But it still should have been my decision.”

Malcolm felt a pinch of frustration again.

“I don’t know if I was right to do what I did,” he said, carefully. “Maybe nothing was right. But either way, I’m glad I saw the planet. I should have seen the planet. It isn’t right to make that kind of decision and never see the consequences of it.” Like Harris never would, he thought, and felt a moment of black rage directed against him. Harris would never have to look a Niskaan in the eye, or dodge their questions. He’d never end up like Deiter had, or like Malcolm had, either.

“I understand,” Archer said.

A minute passed in silence.

“But you still should have told me.”

“Sir,” Malcolm said, which was neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Archer didn’t miss the ambiguity, but to Malcolm’s surprise, his mouth quirked like they were sharing a tease. The expression didn’t linger, however, and the lines in Archer’s face looked deeper than ever. He was not just frowning in thought, Malcolm realised.

“Do you want that other shot now, sir?” he asked. “Or we could beam you out. I won’t be much longer now.”

But Archer shook his head, and when Malcolm looked at him again a short time later, his eyes had closed. Archer’s breathing was audible and even, and Malcolm listened to it while he pinched the last, vital wires between his fingers, clenched his teeth and clipped them. They fell in pieces around his face, and he found himself still lying there, chilled but intact.

“Captain,” he said, softly. Archer’s eyes flickered open.

“You finished?” His voice sounded heavy.

“I’m finished.”

Archer nodded, like this had never been in doubt. Malcolm pulled his comm out to report his success to Trip. Trip’s voice crackled as though it came from miles away.

As Malcolm felt the transporter start to tingle, it occurred to him that he was seeing Niskaa for the last time. Usually, he had no problem with the transporter, but suddenly, he felt a flash of raw panic, not trusting it not to leave bits of him behind. But before he could even complete the thought, he was scattered into atoms – and then he was opening his eyes, back on the ship, dripping mud, with the captain beside him.

* * *

Archer didn’t want to sleep, and told Phlox not to give him anything too strong, but even so, he dropped off while the doctor was examining him. He woke several hours later, feeling woolly-headed, and a little sheepish to find he’d undermined his own intentions. His head was throbbing, and one side of his body felt completely numb. He could taste blood in the wound where he’d bitten his tongue.

“How’s Malcolm doing?” he asked Phlox, when the doctor came to poke at his shoulder.

“He wasn’t injured,” Phlox said.

“I mean, in general.”

Phlox gave him a level look, and then made some hedge about doctor-patient confidentiality, adding that he hadn’t made a diagnosis yet in any case, which told Archer everything he wanted to know. Malcolm had been so doggedly himself down on the planet, and yet the way he’d seemed so disconnected from what had been done to him had raised the hair on Archer’s neck.

Opposite Archer in sickbay was another occupied bed. Trip had completed Archer’s transaction with the Niskaans, and Phlox had done the autopsy while Archer had been sleeping. Gerben Deiter’s body now lay bagged, and modestly concealed by a curtain. Archer asked to see, and Phlox helped him cross the room. The walk hurt his ribs abominably and made his head spin. He returned to his own bed feeling drained and sick, the smell stuck in the back of his throat.

Trip came to see him not long after with something on his mind, a state of being he’d never had the knack of concealing. _Unlike your friend,_ Archer thought, and enquired about his and Malcolm’s little disagreement about methodology. Trip tried to dodge, but, under Archer’s gaze, came clean. Archer told him to send Malcolm to see him and sent him packing without further comment, leaving him to wonder how disloyal he’d been.

Archer lay carefully back on his bed, his ribs feeling tight. He found he wasn’t mad. A stunt like that was just too much like Malcolm – and too much like the part of him that Archer had been looking for these past few weeks and missed. And anyway, Trip would make sure Malcolm knew how stupid he’d been. There seemed little left for Archer to even comment on.

 _Careful,_ he told himself. _If you let the crew get too self-regulating, you’ll be surplus to requirements._ The thought lead him back to Harris and his leadership tips, and Archer’s teeth tightened. Perhaps Harris had never really seen a thing in Malcolm that Archer hadn’t – just a man determined to excel, at any cost to himself.

And a man who’d get right in over his head before he’d ask anybody to save him. Archer shifted with disquiet. He’d known that already, but still, Malcolm did it so quietly sometimes. He never liked to cause a fuss. _The Niskaans were looking for the truth,_ he’d said, and as a statement it was more than just uncharacteristic; it felt incomplete. Malcolm hadn’t, but Archer knew he could have added, _unlike Starfleet._

When Malcolm arrived, he hesitated in the doorway, his eyes drawn to the curtain concealing the opposite bed.

“Phlox says he was dead before he went in the water,” Archer told him, in case this was a problem. Phlox had also shown Archer the twisted remains of rope digging into Deiter’s swollen wrists. His hands had been bound behind his back, and he’d been shot in the back of the head. A DNA comparison had been required to identify him as the same man as his pictures.

Archer found he didn’t want to tell these details to Malcolm, who might have spent six days at that same mercy. Malcolm didn’t seem to want to ask, either. Instead, he walked to Archer’s bedside, careful on his feet, as though Deiter might be woken.

“How are you feeling, sir?” he asked, and they exchanged a little cautious banter, which gave Archer heart. Humour had always been the closest Malcolm had come to being confiding with him. He had changed back out of uniform, Archer noticed, and washed the worst of the mud off, but he still had a shadow where he’d missed a patch on the back of his neck.

When their small talk stalled, Archer reminded him, “Harris wants you back in the game.”

Malcolm gave him a slightly wary look before he answered.

“I’m not sure if he still does. I doubt he’s been much impressed with my behaviour these last few weeks.”

“I don’t know what more he could have expected from you, myself.”

It was meant as a tentative compliment, but as soon as it was out, Archer saw it was misjudged. Doing well for Harris wasn’t something Malcolm much wanted praise for.

“Apparently, I compromise you,” Archer went on. “I admit, I did wonder. Things you told me about yourself, about your past. How much of it was even true.”

Archer was pleased that Malcolm held his eye at that. He looked unhappy, but uncowed.

“I’ve never told you a lie, sir,” he said, quietly, and then grimaced. “I mean –”

“You mean you’ve never told me a lie when you weren’t lying?”

Malcolm’s face coloured a little, but his shoulders were defiant.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “That is what I mean.”

Archer had to smile, and not just at the absurdity. He preferred Malcolm showing a spark to _yes sir, no sir_ at least.

“It’s not even just you,” he said. “I have to fight my way past Trip and Phlox to find out what you’ve been up to. Trip told me what you did down there. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Nothing that’s going to make much difference at this stage, sir.”

Malcolm drew himself a little straighter as he said it, and Archer’s heart sunk a notch. His eyes were drawn to the curtain, as though Deiter was a third party in their conversation. The problem, Archer thought, was that all the corpse proved was the presence of the man – a man already listed as escaped from custody, and already known to be a mercenary, associated with terrorists. His presence on Niskaa was suspicious, but Harris wasn’t anywhere.

“You know this trial is out of my hands now,” he said to Malcolm. “I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.”

“I understand.” Malcolm nodded once, cleanly. Cutting ties. Letting Archer off the hook.

“Do you?” Archer said. “Dishonourable discharge? Criminal charges? Do you understand that?”

“Of course I do, sir,” Malcolm said, softly, but the look he gave Archer was sharp. A little affronted by the implication that he might not have thought of all possible outcomes. Archer almost wanted to smile again.

“Of course you do,” he said instead. “You put me in a difficult position, you know.” He looked at Malcolm closely. “Think Harris will offer you a deal, like Deiter? Let you walk if you go back to work for him?”

“He could stick it,” Malcolm said, the sharpness finding his voice. Now that was something Archer could get behind. Harris seemed happy to treat his people like pieces in the game as long as his secrets stayed safe. Did he feel a pang at all for Deiter, Archer wondered. Deiter had been no innocent party himself, but still, he’d died an ugly, brutal death doing Harris’s work for him.

“You know, my hands aren’t clean either,” Archer said, suddenly feeling unguarded. “It’s not like I’ve been shy to exploit your contacts when it’s suited me. And I asked Harris to help you on Niskaa. If anyone had been killed in that explosion, it would have been on me. And maybe that’s on me as well.” He gestured to the curtain.

“Sir, you’re not responsible for Deiter,” Malcolm protested. “And you didn’t know what Harris would do.”

“I knew what he was like. I just had to get you out of there. I still don’t know if I did what I had to, or if I should have told him to stick it and found some other way.”

“I know how that feels.” Malcolm smiled thinly. He clearly thought the joke was on him.

“Remember Orgoth and the airlock, in the Expanse?” Archer asked him. “Or the Illyrians and their warp coil? They’re still limping home right now.” Emotion rose in his throat. “If they’re even still alive.”

“You did what you had to.”

“You didn’t think so at the time, with Orgoth. You haven’t always been so ready to excuse coercive interrogation techniques, Lieutenant.”

A shadow crossed Malcolm’s eyes, and his face closed. Archer heaved out a sigh which hurt his ribs. He didn’t mean to keep on poking, but Malcolm had developed quite the knack for seeing every point of view except his own.

 _And he’s still not going to ask you to save him._ A habit drummed in by working for Harris, maybe, or at least reinforced by that. Archer had to be different from Harris, but he and Malcolm could never move forward without some gesture of trust made between them.

“This can’t keep happening,” Archer said.

“No, sir,” Malcolm said, but he’d stopped listening.

“No,” Archer said. “ _This_ can’t keep happening. Malcolm, I chose to keep you on my ship after I learned about your history with the Section. If I couldn’t deal with what that might entail, maybe I should have thrown you to the wolves then and there.”

That got Malcolm’s attention. He froze on his feet.

“Harris tried to warn me off pushing this to court,” Archer told him. “He told me what would happen to you. Time and time again, but I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want him to be right. I was so sure there must be some way to get at him, but our friend there –” he gestured to the curtain, “that’s the only kind of justice anyone’s going to get around here, and it stinks. I won’t be a part of it.”

“What choice do we have?” Malcolm demanded, his frown cutting deep. Archer felt an urge to take him by the shoulder, but Malcolm was standing just out of reach. He tried to put his weight behind his words instead.

“Malcolm, I can’t stop the trial now but I don’t have to make you tell the truth up there. If you stick to your first story, tell them you didn’t know Eska, then Starfleet won’t touch you, and Harris can’t.”

“No,” Malcolm said quickly, shaking his head. “No. If I cover for him, he won’t ever let me forget it. Next time he wants something, he’ll have this to hold over me. Over you too. He’s digging us in deeper.”

“I believe you,” Archer said. He had to push the thought away so it didn’t distract him; a problem for another day. “But you can’t go to prison just to get him off our backs.”

“It’s not just that,” Malcolm insisted. His eyes were sharp, pleading. “That wouldn’t be why. Sir, they won’t be making up those charges against me. Whatever they want to throw at me. Treason, espionage, sabotage.” He inhaled hard. “Dealing arms. I don’t suppose it matters to the Niskaans why I did it.”

“No, I don’t suppose it does,” Archer agreed, but his eyes narrowed. “But it ought to make a difference to Starfleet.”

But Malcolm wasn’t hearing. He shifted like his feet were hot. “So you’re offering me a deal before Harris does, it that it?”

“It isn’t like that,” Archer objected, feeling wrong-footed. He’d been expecting a protest, an argument even, but Malcolm’s vehemence surprised him. “It’s about who you should answer to. That court’s going to be made up of old men who’ve never had to make a decision that fast in their lives. Harris put you in a bad situation, and I’m satisfied you did the best you could.”

Malcolm’s eyes were locked on Archer, over-bright.

“What if I’m not satisfied?” he asked, low.

Archer wanted to throw up his hands.

“Malcolm, I can’t compete with your standards,” he said, but he was starting to feel uncomfortably like he might be losing. “You’ve failed in your own head far worse than you ever have for real. I think Fiest just pushed you so far you can’t tell the difference anymore.”

It was a cheap shot, and Malcolm swung away from him, his shoulders furious, but Archer couldn’t feel too bad about it. Malcolm had been ready to fight to the death. But now Archer’s hands felt empty. When Malcolm stood up on that stand, he could say what he wanted; he’d be out of Archer’s reach, and they both knew it. Archer felt heavy and tired all of a sudden, out of appeals or threats. Perhaps he’d got this all wrong years ago. Perhaps if he’d made more effort, known Malcolm better from the start…

 _But that wasn’t what you wanted from me, was it? You never wanted me to be your friend, your counsellor, your confidante. You wanted me to be the captain._

Archer spoke to Malcolm’s shoulders.

“The thing about hard decisions is that sometimes you have to stand by them,” he said. “Apparently, you haven’t worked that out yet, Lieutenant.”

Malcolm looked at him sideways. His eyes were sharp, pale, and unpleasant, and for a moment, he reminded Archer of someone else. Archer got a gutful of blunt adrenaline at the thought, but he couldn’t waver.

“I’m prepared to stand by you, though God knows you don’t always make it easy.” Archer shook his head. “Maybe I don’t make it easy for you either, but you made a decision here too, remember? You chose me over Harris. Are you going back on that?”

“I’m not choosing him,” Malcolm objected, with a fast frown. He folded his arms around himself.

“No, but you’re not choosing me. You want to quit,” Archer challenged him. “But what’s changed, really? You worried that your hands might shake?”

Malcolm’s mouth twisted. For a second, he looked like he might just walk away, but the moment passed, and he held Archer’s gaze. _Say yes,_ Archer dared him, but the nasty humour in Malcolm’s eyes said it for him. The joke was on him.

“You got the job done today, didn’t you?” Archer pushed, when he said nothing.

“Oh yes,” Malcolm said, darkly. “I’m good at that.”

Archer wouldn’t give his sarcasm back to him. “Yes, you are,” he said, simply. “I’m sorry this is hard for you. I wish I could fix that. But don’t pretend to me, or yourself, or anyone else, that you’re doing this because you can’t do any better.”

Malcolm glowered at him looking unimpressed, but Archer found he didn’t mind having Malcolm’s anger directed at him. It beat him turning it on himself, or shutting Archer out, and besides, it was all part of being in charge.

“Just make your mind up,” Archer said. A new wave of tiredness hit him. “I won’t ask you again,” he added, softer. It wasn’t an ultimatum; that would do no good, just a promise that he wouldn’t keep beating his fist on the door if Malcolm wanted it closed. He couldn’t be like Harris.

Malcolm’s shoulders slumped a little, like he’d caught the same wave. He scratched absently at the dirty patch on his neck and let his eyes wander. Inevitably, the curtain drew his attention again. Deiter was charismatic in death, even covered by a curtain. Archer thought of him again, bright-eyed, in that Niskaan alley, a fast runner with gloved hands.

“He won’t let this go, you know,” Malcolm said, quietly. For a moment, Archer thought he meant Deiter, and his vision doubled, but then he worked it out. It did taste bitter, knowing Harris would be safe behind his screen.

“He hasn’t beaten us,” Archer said. “Call this a tactical retreat. If we ever get a chance to nail him, really nail him, I promise you we’ll take it.”

Malcolm gave him a small smile, a _thanks for the effort_ , but he didn’t look convinced. He didn’t concede out loud, either, and a guarded part of Archer’s mind wondered if Malcolm was looking for a loophole, but he let it go. If Malcolm had chosen him, then Archer had a responsibility to do better by him that Harris had – which included not trapping him in corners, or trying to get by without trust. All those times in the early days, Archer thought, when he’d tried to push Malcolm to be friends. He hadn’t understood that as far as Malcolm was concerned theirs was an intense and profound enough relationship already.

Archer’s eyes felt heavy. He found he ached in new places. “You should go take a shower, get some sleep,” he told Malcolm. “You look like you need it.”

For a moment, Archer could have sworn one of Malcolm’s eyes narrowed at him as though he was searching his face for sarcasm, but before he could be certain it was gone, and Malcolm was shifting his feet to attention. He looked tired, and slightly ragged, but himself.

“Captain,” he said, and Archer nodded dismissal.

When Malcolm had gone, exhaustion took Archer over, his thoughts awash. The knowledge that they were still caught in Niskaan orbit, endlessly falling, overwhelmed him. Archer called up to the bridge and ordered T’Pol to lay in a course for Earth, waited to feel Enterprise shift into warp, then closed his eyes and drifted. Stars flicked beneath their feet, and the world was behind them.


	9. Chapter 9

On day thirty-one, Phlox sat Malcolm down and asked him some questions, which he answered as shortly as he could without being dishonest. After a few days of triumph, he’d found himself caught in a cycle of sleeplessness. He was tired, sick of himself, and only too aware the captain had lifted his suspension only to have Phlox veto his return to work.

“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Phlox told him, when he was done.

“Congratulations,” Malcolm said darkly, mostly to himself.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Malcolm said. “I feel a bit better today, actually.” He’d been dreading the diagnosis so much it felt like a burden had been lifted to have it arrive.

“Glad to hear,” Phlox said, and made a note. Malcolm examined his hands. They were all but healed, with only some residual stiffness remaining in the fingers on his right. He could make a proper fist. He did so now. After a short time, he became aware of the silence, and looked up to find Phlox was looking at him speculatively.

“You shouldn’t look on it like a sentence,” Phlox said. He seemed to have been waiting for Malcolm’s attention. “What you’re experiencing is a perfectly normal human reaction to trauma, so much so that it has a name. And because we can put a name to it, we can talk about it, and understand it, and that makes it easier for us to help you.”

It seemed obvious when Phlox put it like that.

“You are going to be fine,” Phlox told him, and though it tugged on something inside him, a part of him that didn’t want to let go, Malcolm found that he believed him.

He looked at his hands again, and after a while, he started to talk. Jaggedly, at first, words falling out of him; how stupid he’d felt, how helpless, how angry, about Fiest, about Harris, about how Harris wouldn’t leave him alone, even now; thoughts conflating, ideas mixing, until Phlox probably didn’t follow even half of it, but he was patient and attentive nonetheless.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm finished, the words feeling unfamiliar without being tinged with despair. “About Qu’vat. I really am. I probably should have guessed, but… I wasn’t told that you were in danger. I wouldn’t have gone along with it if I’d known the whole story.”

“I appreciate the apology,” Phlox said, and he sounded so much like he meant it, there seemed like nothing more to say.

* * *

Malcolm had apologised to Trip too, for nearly getting blown up on his watch. Trip had been graceful, but Malcolm could tell from the crease in his forehead that he didn’t feel quite ready to accept it. He supposed death wasn’t something Trip could brush off quite so easily these days. Not something Malcolm could, either, it turned out; the night they left Niskaa, he dreamt about fighting his way endlessly through mud, the ground alive beneath him, almost within reach of an overturned car that just wouldn’t come any closer.

Trip took unrepentant advantage of the fact that Malcolm felt guilty, and used it to drag him out to the mess hall the evening after. Malcolm dreaded the thought, his feet heavy all the way, but in the end, it wasn’t that bad. People stared a bit, but that was all they did. Malcolm sat with his back to the room and let Trip distract him.

“The captain wants me to lie in court,” he told Trip low, when they were settled with their meals.

“So do I,” Trip said. Malcolm shoved his food around moodily. He still felt aggressively ambivalent about the whole idea.

“Well, I wouldn’t celebrate just yet,” he said. “He’ll probably change his mind again tomorrow.”

Trip snorted round his mouthful. “Don’t be bitter,” he said. “He’s made the right call. We can’t lose you. We don’t know all your passwords, and no one else around here can figure out how the mess you’ve made of the targeting sensors even works.”

Malcolm pointed his fork at him. “You know perfectly well how it works,” he said. “And I know it looks a bit messy, but I did have to improvise. I’ll tidy it up when we’re in space dock, and I can actually order some new parts.”

Trip gave him a look that was smugger than the point he’d just scored, and Malcolm realised he’d just acknowledged out loud that he might have a future on Enterprise.

“About what happened down there,” he began again, hoping to make it stick this time, but Trip waved him off.

“It was my fault,” he said. “I should have known. The only surprise is I was surprised. You never do what I tell you.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to object to that, but then saw from the glint in Trip’s eye that he was all ready to start listing examples. Malcolm turned his food over with his fork, and found that he was laughing.

* * *

On the morning of his trial, Malcolm went walking to gather his thoughts. The sun was out in San Francisco, over-bright on the buildings and the neat squares of grass. It did not feel like home. He’d become so used to feeling bone-weary and ill that even his own body in good health felt unfamiliar, like walking in new clothes.

When the hour came, sunshine was slanting through the window of the court room too. It was not a real court, but a conference hall at Starfleet Command, convened for the purpose. Small. Discreet. No press, but security, unobtrusive by the door. Nothing would escape the room.

Malcolm shook some hands before the session started, with Archer staying close by him. On another occasion, Malcolm might have felt the captain was hovering over him, but now he was grateful to have him as back up. He felt awkward, and feared getting tongue-tied before he even took the stand. Everyone he spoke to was supportive; apologetic, even, treating this like a diplomatic formality, and nothing more. But other details jarred with this impression. The panel of officers who would stand for a jury were suspiciously high ranking. Malcolm recognised some faces, but pretended that he didn’t. He was being a good operative. The handshakes grew firmer.

The trial counsel was called Commander Guillam, and, when Malcolm put himself at attention before the court, he couldn’t help comparing the man unfavourably to Fiest – though he knew now this was a little perverse, and it made his skin prickle.

Guillam began by asking Malcolm to confirm his name and rank. All eyes in the court were on him, bright with expectation. He’d played his role well enough so far, and they wanted him to see it through. For a moment, Malcolm was stymied by even this simple question; the eyes, the expectation, the thought of Harris, somewhere, sitting back with satisfaction. It wasn’t too late, Malcolm told himself. He could still break free.

But then he met Archer’s eye across the room, and if Archer understood that Malcolm could still defy him, nothing in his features allowed doubt. He was watching Malcolm steadily, rooting for him, willing him forward. Trust was harder to escape from than suspicion.

And Guillam was still waiting. The panel were starting to shift, a few in curiosity, the few who knew in consternation. Malcolm ran his eye along them, and he found he didn’t really want to tell the truth to these old men – and not because they wouldn’t forgive him, but because they’d never understand. The gesture would be empty. They didn’t really care about the Niskaans either.

So Malcolm framed his face to suit this piece of theatre. Avoided Archer’s eye for a moment in case he started to grin, overwhelmed with the urge to share his new relief that he could really get through this. He stated his name and rank, and his voice came out steady and clear.

“Lieutenant Reed, can you describe to us, in your own words, what happened that night?”

 _In your own words_ was a loophole Malcolm could use. It felt strange to only talk about that one night in Chibnia, as though it was the whole story and not just the part he’d been caught for. His recall had been worn by time and distance; it was cinematic and scratchy, and crackled with silence. In black and white, so he couldn’t see the blood.

Malcolm had been attending a meeting in a thin-walled hall in the city centre, talking to the troops who’d be continuing his field work after Enterprise had left. He hadn’t liked to think he was here doing penance, because that felt self-indulgent, but there was no question he’d been testing the boundaries of the uneasy alliance he’d made with his decision of six years ago.

He was staying at barracks, and it was only a short distance, so he’d chosen to walk it when they were done, wanting the air. It had been chilly, drizzling, but he didn’t mind too much. He’d been tired, but the decent kind of tired that came with hard work going well. Faintly feeling the strain of having to repay Niskaan hospitality by being social, something that never came easy to him. This might have been the real reason that he chose to walk home alone.

Malcolm had heard footsteps on the street behind him, and taken a glance, but Chibnia was a city; it wasn’t unusual for there to be people about. He should have been more careful. He said as much to Guillam, who had yet to interrupt him with a question.

He registered a footfall coming too close, but he had no time to turn before it was on him. Something hit him between the shoulder blades, and he was thrown forward, his head striking hard against the wall. For a second, there were only stars, but then he found his feet underneath him, and swung round to see –

Bright, bloodshot eyes that burned a hole right through him.

The recollection almost made Malcolm falter, his vision suddenly doubling, but he couldn’t have shown it, since Guillam seemed to take the break in his speech for a natural pause.

“Did you recognise the man?” he asked. He sounded mildly interested, but nothing more.

“No,” Malcolm said. “I didn’t know who he was.” He felt like he was over a hurdle, having got that out there, but now he had to be so careful. Offer up blocks of the truth, with bits knocked out.

 _It is you,_ Eska had said to him. _I thought it was._

Light caught on the blade that was clenched in his fist. Malcolm was pinned to the spot – not physically, but just with no idea, for one stupid long moment, as to what he should do. _You,_ he could echo, but Eska wasn’t the one who was light years from home here.

“And then what happened?” Guillam asked.

The night air had been cold in Malcolm’s throat, and the light in those eyes stole his breath. He’d cursed himself, crushingly, for having been so complacent and careless. Unforgivable, if he’d had anyone else but himself to look out for. But he’d been keeping his past at arm’s length, and hadn’t wanted to look closely enough to take proper precautions. He really hadn’t counted on being so rudely confronted with what he had done. Besides, he’d told himself, there was a whole planet’s worth of people that he could have run into. He hadn’t even known which region Eska came from.

“He had a knife,” Malcolm told Guillam, his voice sounding odd, without emotion, in his ears. “He held it against my face. He pushed me back against the wall.”

The blade flashed silver like a biting fish. Eska shoved him, and Malcolm’s freeze broke, but he was still slow, too slow, hypnotised and dumb-founded. Malcolm tried to bring his hands up, but Eska’s weight blocked him, pinning him, the brick work cold on Malcolm’s back. The edge of the knife was a pressing threat, the point resting close to his right eye.

“Did he say anything to you?” Guillam asked.

Malcolm looked at Archer. He shifted his weight.

“No,” he said. “No, he didn’t say anything.”

Malcolm had an ID badge from the meeting with his name written on it in phonetic Niskaan characters. Eska plucked this from his pocket with his free hand and read it out loud.

 _Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. Starfleet._ With the stresses all wrong. _Then, who are you now?_

Because of course Eska had known him in another life, and he didn’t know if that had been the fraud, or if this was. For a moment, Malcolm couldn’t say that he knew either. All his lies were lining up against the wall. And what about Eska? Malcolm could have asked him much the same question, since Niskaa was no longer at war. Would it be safer for Malcolm to admit to the truth or to cling to his lie? He just didn’t know, and the seconds ticked by, his tongue empty.

Eska looked thoughtful. The knife had done its work, and a line of hot pain lay across Malcolm’s cheek. Eska ran the tip of the blade slowly down, touching it on Malcolm’s throat, and then dropped it down between their bodies. The point poked at Malcolm’s stomach. He sucked his breath in, but the blade and Eska’s weight came with him, the pressure increasing.

“Did you try to speak to him?” Guillam asked. It was an obvious question really, but Fiest had never asked it, and so Malcolm was caught unawares.

“I… I asked what he wanted.” An obvious lie, or justifiable nerves? Malcolm was suddenly uncertain. He wanted to look at Archer, but it would look too much like an appeal for help, so he kept his eyes forward.

 _I’m on a humanitarian mission,_ Malcolm had gasped out. He couldn’t lie with the last breath he had in him. _I’m disarming mines._

Eska’s eyes widened.

“He didn’t answer?” Guillam prompted, because Malcolm had stopped again.

“No, he didn’t say anything.”

Fiest had been right. It didn’t sound likely. But Guillam wasn’t Fiest.

“And then what?”

“He stabbed me. Or he tried. I saw him move. I was faster.”

Malcolm had known it was coming as soon as he’d spoken. He would have cut his own heart out for his hypocrisy. _Disarming mines._ But the night air was vital, and the point pressing at him made his panic sharp, and Eska was no fighter really, not used to killing face to face. He brought the knife back to stab, and the shift in his weight gave Malcolm an inch to bring his hands up between them.

“I caught the knife. The point hit me just above the hip, but I stopped most of it.”

The blade was just a little bit longer than the width of both Malcolm’s hands, and it was this half-inch which slid into him. It didn’t really hurt, but his fists got sticky quickly. The steel felt wrong in his skin.

 _Wait,_ Malcolm had started to say, not even knowing what would follow it, but Eska had run out of time for him. He plucked the point out of Malcolm’s belly, slicing his hands back the wrong way. Malcolm gasped with pain, but Eska had given him that inch again. Malcolm grabbed the blade, his hands slippery with blood, and he twisted.

Eska threw all his weight behind the blow; he meant to make it count, but the knife had turned between them. The blunt handle drove hard into Malcolm’s belly, winding him, and Eska’s bulk came crashing after. For a moment, they were stuck there, Malcolm pinned, and Eska slumping against him, his mouth open, his eyes turning sightless. Malcolm held onto him and kept on holding, even when he groaned as the air left his body, even after his weight became dead.

“He was killed straight away?” Guillam asked. Malcolm nodded, for a moment too heavy to speak. His knees had given way a little. He could feel himself bleeding. Eska slipped sideways off him and hit the ground like a heavy sack.

Malcolm’s hands had clamped quickly to the wound in his side, and when he held them up under the streetlight, they were red with blood. Everywhere he touched himself came away bloody. A wave broke over him; cold, wet horror, and he sat down hard.

“Did you check on him?” Guillam asked. “There was nothing you could have done for him?”

Malcolm had been too busy scrabbling at himself, taking far too long to work out that his hands were what was bleeding, but he knew, on some level, that it didn’t really matter. He’d felt it happen on the twist of the knife, Eska’s muscles stiffen. The man was already dead.

“Yes,” he told Guillam. Close to honest would sound better. “I checked. It… it took me a minute, I have to admit. I was stunned, I was bleeding… it took me a minute to check on him.”

“And he was dead then? After a minute?”

“Yes. He was dead then.”

Eska’s open eyes had been full of rain.

The wall against Malcolm’s back had been the only solid ground he had to cling to. He’d pressed against it, transfixed by the body in his eye line. Wave after wave broke on him. Blood was hot on his hands. He could feel his pulse pumping it out of him.

“Did you try to contact anyone? The police? Enterprise?”

His communicator, Malcolm had remembered. It was in his pocket. He should call Archer, he needed help, but his hand would fill his pocket up with blood, and then what would he say? Lie? Confess?

“I didn’t. I… I had hit my head.” It sounded pathetic as an excuse, though no one in the room seemed shocked, and actually, there was probably some truth to it. Malcolm’s thoughts had been pounding, racing hard enough to hurt, and he’d had to shut his eyes a lot, the night greying out around him. Time kept passing, but that wasn’t his problem. Once, he could have sworn he heard Eska sigh.

When the police arrived, they had to pick Malcolm up. They hadn’t been rough, not then, but their hands closed on his arms, and they held him between them. The memory of it made him feel helpless.

“When they took me in, they took away my communicator,” Malcolm said.

It had been then that it had first sunk into his addled head that he was under arrest. They took him to a white, bright room and made him wait for a medic. It was a relief, at first, to be back in the light, but then they’d brought the needles – and that was where his recall stopped. Malcolm couldn’t examine the days that followed in front of all these people. If they asked him to try, he would unravel. He’d confess.

Perhaps Guillam knew this, because he didn’t ask. The court went quiet. It shuffled and coughed. Malcolm’s hands felt light and shaky, but he held himself upright. He couldn’t look at anyone but Archer.

“Let me ask you something else, Lieutenant Reed,” Guillam began. He had no presence, not like Fiest, and Malcolm hardly even wanted to pay him attention. “Given your own security and tactical training, are you satisfied you acted as you had to?”

Malcolm’s eyes were still on Archer, and something passed between them. He could almost smile. No, of course he wasn’t satisfied, but it wasn’t a fair question. Guillam was poking at the wrong part of the story. Malcolm couldn’t help that Eska had given him an inch, and he couldn’t have stood and let him stab him, not after he’d gotten a taste of the blade in his skin. It made him feel sick to think of Eska dying on the knife, but Malcolm knew he’d never meant for it to finish that way. It had just happened.

What he did regret keenly were the seconds before. His hesitation, being struck dumb. Opening his mouth and finding nothing but the night air on his tongue. He’d let his own past pile up and pin him. Malcolm still didn’t know why Eska had decided to kill him, if _humanitarian mission_ had been the part that he’d hated, or if knowing that Malcolm must have duped him had wounded his pride. Or maybe he’d looked at Malcolm and known that he was out of place, an arms dealer, a trouble-maker, whatever his purpose for being there. Maybe he’d thought Malcolm was the type they had no time for on the new Niskaa. A danger to their peace. If Malcolm could have found a way to speak to him, perhaps he could have saved them both. They might even have found they had common regrets.

When Trip had wondered if Eska really felt sorry for the lives he had taken for his cause, Malcolm had thought the question pointless – but now he found himself hoping with all of his heart that Eska had, because that way lay hope. For Niskaa, for himself, that change could be real. The thought made him hold his head up a little higher. He could see his way out.

“Yes, sir,” he said, his voice without echo. “I am, sir.”

Malcolm breathed recycled air. The atmosphere in the room relented. Guillam looked at his notes, but he was all out of questions.

The panel ruled that Malcolm had acted in self-defence, since there was little else they could do with the evidence he gave them. It was even true, which was the strangest part, and made Malcolm put his head on one side when he thought of it. No other version of events was ever suggested.

Afterwards, there were handshakes again, and a few sets of fingers tightened in praise for his performance. He had done well. Malcolm thanked them all, and his throat grew rougher. There seemed to be no end to them, and they all stood too close, crowding into his air, and Malcolm felt his chest tighten and the back of his neck start to prickle – but then Archer’s hand was on his shoulder, excusing them both. They had a ship to get back to, now that the formality was done.

Outside, the birds were singing, and the sun burned the grass. Malcolm found he couldn’t wait to get off the world. They walked back to the shuttlepod together, not quite side by side, Archer’s stride being naturally longer.

“No more games,” Archer told him, and Malcolm wasn’t sure if this was an instruction or an expression of relief, but either way, he agreed.

Earth felt more like home when he was leaving it. Malcolm stared out the shuttlepod window and watched the continents roll. It looked so fragile somehow, with nothing to hold it in place, like it was turning on hope. But if that was all it took to turn a planet, Malcolm thought, then maybe it was worth hanging onto.


End file.
